


If the summer of our lives could just come again

by TheDameintheRaininMaine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Black Comedy, F/M, Gen, Time Travel Fix-It, and I figure everyone else is doing it so why not, back in the day, black comedy and lots of feels, but they're not really supposed to be romantic in nature, couple of political marriages, in which time travel renders everyone absolute smart asses, less cracky as story goes on, non specific rating bump, sibling relationships, the wolves will get their due, we called these "peggy sue fics"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 07:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 127,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20373064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDameintheRaininMaine/pseuds/TheDameintheRaininMaine
Summary: The Long Night does not end. Three Starks, along with four others, approach a strange anomaly, while the dead continue to rise.Now returned to the past, endless tragedy, and the Long Night, haunt their futures.They are,perhapsnot taking things as seriously as they should.





	1. Chapter 1

**Ned**

There were little things of course.

Maybe the first sign should have been Arya. Arya had always been a willful child, expressing her opinions loudly on what was expected of her. One day, suddenly, she became almost obedient. 

Not that she did what was told of her, but she nodded and was silent, before not doing it. 

It concerned Ned greatly, and after this business with the King was finished, he made a vow to sit down with his youngest daughter and try and find out what must have made her suddenly so withdrawn

For that matter, his normally pleasant and gentle elder daughter had changed too. 

It was the morning after the night where they had entertained the King and his caravan where Sansa had been starry-eyed over the idea of marrying the prince, when Ned noticed the change. Unlike Arya, it had not been subtle. 

Varyn Poole’s daughter had been happily chatting with Sansa. Though his daughter had seemed a bit preoccupied, nonetheless, she seemed herself. Right now she seemed to be listening, though her hands keep slipping below the table to sneak Lady scraps.

Then Jeyne finally broached the subject, and that all ended.

“I just can’t believe you’re going to get to marry the prince!”

The look that Sansa had on her face was not one Ned had ever seen her wear. It was nearly withering. 

“I would rather kiss a toadstool.”

That was going to be a complication, Ned thought. Sansa’s complete and easy acceptance of Robert’s plan to merge their houses had made it easier to accept the idea of marrying off his thirteen year old daughter to a boy he had barely met. 

Arya had exploded with laughter at Sansa’s outburst, managing to spew milk from her nose. That was enough to break the awkwardness her admission had caused, and Ned moved on. 

Any concerns were put off with great suddenness that afternoon when Bran had plunged from the wall of the Broken Tower. One of the serving girls had found him, and the afternoon had become a flurry of activity.

Luwin had given him milk of the poppy, even though he was still unconscious. He had said that the pain would be too intense if he were to wake right now. After saying that, he knelt over Bran’s body, and slowly rotated and fit his leg back into his hip socket with an unnerving pop.

Ned stared down at the prone form of his second youngest son. It was so strange to see him like this. The wrist break had been clean, and it was already splinted. Luwin was still working on his plastering his leg, which had been battered into resembling ground meat, the bone splintered and stuck through the skin.

Luwin had informed Ned that Bran’s injuries were great. 

“It may take months before he can even stand again, much less walk or run, and he may have lingering pain and weakness even long after. I fear when he wakes, it may be discovered that he suffered some head trauma as well, considering the fall and how he was found.”

Catelyn was completely despondent. She hadn’t left Bran’s side since. She had always doted on him a bit more than the others. Ned understood her reaction. 

His daughters, on the other hand, were more inscrutable.

They were present, to be sure. Both girls, though they had spent their childhoods sharing time only when forced, sat by their brother’s bedside whenever allowed. 

Somehow, they did not seem to be frightened for their brother, merely curious. 

That night, Ned takes his wife aside and speaks to her. 

“I’m going to refuse Robert’s offer, at least for the time.”

“Ned, you can’t, he’s the king.”

Ned knows this, but he cannot change what he plans to do. These days have all been too strange, too unreal, for him to fight his urge to discover the truth.

“He’s also a father,” Ned replies fiercely, though admittedly Robert had shown little regard for his own children, “and so he should understand my children should come first. I’ll send him a raven when Bran’s beginning to recover, see if he still wants me as his hand. I can do what I can to investigate your sister’s letter from here.”

It’s at first light the next morning when he tells Robert. 

“I hope you can understand.”

Robert is confused, as though he hadn’t even considered this possibility. He is upset, but Ned stands his ground. Even when he sounds like he will yell, he doesn’t budge. 

“The problems of the realm will come after the problems of my own home. I will write you when things here have calmed. 

When he returns to Bran’s chambers, he lingers outside, lurking, realizing that Arya and Sansa are still within. The two are talking quietly, but he cannot make out their words. He can see Summer sitting quietly at the end of the bed.

Then, he hears a stirring. 

Arya leaps to her feet and runs to the door, 

“Father! Bran’s waking!”

Luwin had said the poppy should begin to wear off during the next few hours, and that someone should be with Bran during the time, because he would be confused. Confused and in pain and frightened. 

Taking the spot nearest the bed, Ned takes his son’s hand. His left hand has been strapped down, in case he wakes unattended and attempts to use it, making his injury worse.

Initially, Bran’s first mutterings don’t make much sense. 

“Shh, son. You took a great fall, don’t try to move, you might make it worse.”

He turns to his daughters, 

“One of you, fetch Maester Luwin, tell him Bran’s awake. And find your mother too.”

Sansa does as she is told, though not without looking back. Arya stands perfectly still, still entranced.

His son shakes his head back and forth. He looks so small. He already was, being the second youngest, but the plaster and splints and the bandages on his many scrapes and bruises. He moves as though unsure of his skin. 

Then he pulls himself further against his pillow with his hands, wincing and pulling away when he puts pressure on his left one. He opens his eyes slowly, gazing down at the lower half of his body. 

Ned feels his voice catch in his throat, suddenly broken hearted for what this will do to Bran’s spirit. Any serious injury would be hard to adjust to for a child, much less such an active one as he. 

Bran blinks a few times, and begins to shake again, but not the way he had been before. His chest twitches, and his good hand reaches up to brace itself against it. 

And then he begins to laugh.  
**  
** **Arya**  
  
They hadn’t been sure, of any of it. But hearing Bran begin to laugh, to laugh as he had as a child, lit the fire within her. 

When Sansa returns with Mother, the two of them slip away. 

As soon as they’re out of earshot, Arya erupts with giggles. 

“I still can’t believe any of this.”

Sansa smiles in return. 

“It was enough to wake up in my bed eleven years old again, to remember all those horrible things, but then a day later, you too,” Arya continues.

“If Bran remembers too-”

“He must, he was out for a month before, we had all left before he woke up, he must have managed to change something.”

Sansa suddenly has a memory and tugs Arya’s arm.

“Follow me.”

“What?” 

“I remembered something Tyrion told me once before.”

Following Sansa’s lead, the two walk outside in the early morning light. They’re outside the kennels, and Sansa hoists her skirts and leads her to climb up on a pair of boxes just behind a column, which would conceal them while they peeked past it. 

Arya’s minds, both her eleven year old self and the grown woman beyond it, are deeply confused. 

“I can’t say we exactly became extra close even with the Long Night and the chaos after and all,” Arya starts, “But at what point exactly did you become me?”

Sansa shushes her. The two crouch quietly, and watch, as the space in front of the kennel is soon approached by Joffrey and the Hound, and Tyrion wakes from within, out of his drunken stupor. They can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but when Tyrion’s hand reaches out and slaps Joffrey across the face they have a perfect view. 

Arya stuffs her fingers in her mouth to stifle the squeal that attempts to leave her mouth. Sansa, ever the more composed of the two, is merely grinning like a loon.

And then it happens twice more, and by the time the group finally moves out of the area, Arya and Sansa finally allow their laughs to burst out and collapse onto each other. 

“Gods, Joffrey was such a cunt. Maybe I should let them betroth us, I could go to King’s Landing and spend all my time making him as miserable as possible.”

Arya is suddenly serious. 

“No,” she says forcefully, “we will not be doing that, not this time. “

She reaches out and puts both of her hands on Sansa’s shoulders. Even at ten and three, Sansa was still so much taller than her.

“None of that, none of that game means anything will the long night is coming.”

Sansa nods, and the two are quiet for a time. 

Arya can still feel the mark the Night King had left on her neck, even as she knows her skin is now unmarked. She can still remember the elation when she had managed to kill him. The joy that had followed, and the creeping dread, as they had realized it had not been enough. The terror as the dead across Westeros continued to rise. It had been slow, unlike the first onslaught, and it occurred in broad daylight. But people continued to die anyway, and rise again, thralled. 

Their mirth suddenly stolen, the girls proceed to breakfast. After shoveling down their eggs and fried bread, Sansa volunteers to bring Bran his food, and after she leaves, Arya silently slips out behind her. 

They reunite in the hallway, and manage to only pass Theon, who eyes them oddly. 

Sansa looks back after he passes, an odd, wistful look on her face. 

“He’s probably just confused seeing us together so much,” Arya comments. 

Sansa’s gaze continues to linger. 

“Everyone else, Father, Mother, Robb...we got them all back. Theon’s the only one who coming back here it feels like we’ve lost him, the man he had become.”

Arya makes a face. While she had always been cordial to Theon after coming home, part of her had never been able to forgive him. Sansa had been with him longer though, and had always defended him, had had his side. 

Bran is, while still bedbound, somehow moving constantly. He taps his good foot while shoveling down his breakfast. Summer has climbed up on the bed, his snout pressed into Bran’s side.

“When did it happen to you?” Arya asks him. Their furtive whispers had revealed that Arya and Sansa had both woken up in their beds.

Bran chews and swallows his bite and sets the tray aside.

“About thirty seconds before Jamie pushed me.”

Oh. Maybe the two of them had been blessed to wake up quietly. 

“And you-”

Bran glances down at his shattered leg. 

“I tried to roll. I guess I landed on one side.”

He then winces, at his leg, but at a sudden memory too. 

“Which meant I got an eyeful of him fucking Cersei again. That was somehow worse than the first time.”

The crudeness is a touch shocking coming from their younger brother. It’s also a surprise in another form. 

Arya reaches out and pokes him once on the cheek. 

“So I take it it was actually Brandon Stark who came through that anomaly, not the creepy-eyed crow?”

Bran wears a look far too melancholy for his young face. 

“No, it’s just me in here.”

Sansa suddenly feels her cheeks become wet. She’s pushed down so hard on her feelings for so long. The loss of her parents and her brother were easy to do this for. The state that Bran had returned to them in had been harder to mourn, and harder to hide the mourning for. 

“Well good,” Arya insists, “I don’t think you realize just how creepy you had become.”

Bran’s face is far away. 

“It was like looking at your actions through a window. Like I could see what I was doing, but I was so distanced from it none of what I did felt like it was me. All my actions were just like when I was seeing the past through the visions.”

Sansa asks, “Do you still have any of your powers?”

Bran shakes his head slowly. 

“If I actively looked at it then, I should remember it, but I don’t think I can still see through the weirwoods. I haven’t had a vision since I woke either. Though-”

He suddenly looks thoughtful. 

“I think I should still be able to warg, I could do that even before we went past the wall. I should try tonight, check on everyone who came through the anomaly with us.”

“How many of us are there?” Arya asks. It feels like she should remember, but all of her memories towards the very end have begun to blur. 

Sansa’s got it all. Unlike her sister, her memories leading up to it are picture perfect, almost too detailed. 

“Howland and Meera, they were the ones in front steering the boat. Then the three of us, Arya was in front, that must have been why she woke first. And Gendry and Davos were in back.”

Arya’s pulled her knees up to her chest, feeling very small. 

“We really should tell someone.”

Sansa shakes her head and Bran nods softly in agreement. 

“We may end up having to, but right now-” Bran starts. 

“How would we even be able to convince anyone? Our story is patently ridiculous,” Sansa adds.

“Jon,“ Arya says suddenly. 

“That is true,” Bran says, thoughtful. “No one else but Howland Reed knows what happened at the Tower of Joy. That could be our salvation, especially if he remembers too.”

Bran’s eyes are downcast, and Arya suspects he’s bearing the weight of having carried the Raven in him. Arya’s still feeling powerless. 

“Jon should be with us.”

Sansa shakes her head. She agrees, but she knows that it’s not a point worth fighting. 

“He said someone had to remain in Winterfell.”

Tears are falling down Arya’s face. She knows this, she remembers the frenzied conversations that had happened. When the dead continued to rise, when the anomaly appeared in the Neck, when the three-eyed-Raven began to lead them to it. They hadn’t even known what it was. She had begged Jon to come with them, but he didn’t want to leave their people alone to face the dead again. She should have begged harder. 

And now he was going to be leaving them again, for the Night’s Watch, none the wiser of what could be coming for him. 

“We don’t even know if there’s anything we can do to change anything,” Sansa says, sounding like she’s trying to stave off their inevitable defeat. 

“There clearly is,” Bran tells her roughly, gesturing at his legs, “whether or not there are any kind of rules or if there are some things that are going to happen regardless, we can clearly do some things differently.”

“I’m sort of surprised you haven’t suggested cutting some things short by just sneaking off and executing Littlefinger,” Sansa adds. 

Arya is quiet at first. True, she had considered it, but there were too many logistical problems. Plus…

“I don’t think I could. We have to remember that our bodies are young again too. I stuck my hand up my skirt last night-”

“ARYA!” Sansa yells, red and scandalized. Bran’s managed to clamp his hands over his ears, with only a small yelp due to his injured wrist. 

Arya rolls her eyes. She doesn’t let them on how lonely she had felt. How her heart had yearned even if her body knew no different. She had never understood what would come of becoming used to sharing someone’s bed in the most practical of senses. 

“Point is, even if our minds remember, our bodies don’t necessarily. My sword arm and reflexes are probably shot. I won’t say I definitely couldn’t cut Littlefinger’s throat again, but I wouldn’t bet my life on it.”

She reaches out and scratches Summer’s head. 

“We’re going to have to try and plan things. But we’re acting strangely, I think Father’s going to catch on. We’ll have to try and act more normal.”

And so, the three make to leave Bran’s chambers and continue upon their day. 

When Sansa pushes the door shut behind them, she finds Lady sitting neatly on the floor outside. 

She’s so small, Sansa can still pick her up and carry her in her arms. She won’t be able to for much longer. Lady hadn’t even been the size of a full sized hound before.

“I think the wolves might remember too,” Arya tells her, gently stroking Lady’s ears, “When I woke this morning Nymeria was staring at me, before I told her she could go. She’s been out in the wood since. I don’t know when she’ll come back.”

“It’s strange,” Sansa admits, “All these important things we’ve been talking about. Everything that’s supposed to happen to us. And all I want to do is run with her in the wood and throw her sticks.”

“She’s a direwolf, Sansa, not some common hound,” Arya criticizes, but she follows her out the door anyway. “Where are we supposed to be right now?”

“Embroidery lesson.”

Arya wrinkles her nose, 

“Well you already know all that and I’m hopeless no matter what they do, so let’s just say we were overcome and forgot.”

Left to his own devices for what may be the only time in days to come, Bran shuts his eyes and lets his mind take leave. 

The common sparrow is an easy steed. Gentle, light, and it knows it’s home. Bran sets back and lets it meander until it finds Greywater Watch. 

He perches on the edge of the crannog, watching. Howland Reed has more gray in his hair than he did in flashbacks, but still has something of the flush of youth under his skin. Meera is younger than he remembers when meeting her before, smaller even. Far too young for her face to look so old. Jojen stands between his father and sister, looking, in a truly strange state for the greenseer, genuinely confused. They’re carrying packs and others are sending them off. 

Meera at one point turns her head towards him, and though she really shouldn’t be able to know, Bran feels her gaze, and his chest aches, in a way that it hasn’t in a long long time.

A week or two then, up the Kingsroad for them. 

The pigeons are heavy in King’s Landing, There are so many smells here, both familiar and un, that it’s like navigating a storm. 

Gendry sleeps on a cot in back of the forge, under a ragged blanket. He’s slept late today, and will have to skip breakfast to begin work. 

When he finally stirs, Bran watches as he reaches out for someone, and just keeps reaching. Opening his eyes, he begins to glance around, and suddenly looks nearly hopeless. 

Wanting to ease his goodbrother’s pain, Bran flies through the window, into the cramped-dark-hot space and lands on his shoulder.

Though he jumps a bit, eventually Bran sees a flicker of recognition appear in Gendry’s eyes, and he reaches to ruffle his feathers. 

It’s not like he can just leave King’s Landing, not if he wants to get anywhere safely. Gendry is now as much a child in the eyes of the world as they. 

In the space of a second, the pigeon is again a pigeon, and Gendry is left to shoo it out the window. 

The seagull glides on the sea breezes above Cape Wrath. Davos is easy to find, preparing the crew of the Black Bertha. He is the furthest south who will remember, but he has the most means to find them again. His wife is there, though Bran never got to meet her, he hopes he will now. There are seven boys with them, from little boys to a young man newly married. Within a few days, the Black Bertha will set sail. 

Bran reawakens, in his own bed. Mother has come to his side again, fussing. 

“I’m going to be fine Mother,” he tries to reassure her. 

As soon as she leaves again, Bran lets himself slip, however briefly, into Lady.

He runs the wolfswood in her little cub feet. He smells the late summer on the air, and listens to his sister’s laughter. And he relishes that soon he may be able to join them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Catelyn**

Lady Catelyn would be ashamed to admit it took her much longer than her husband to notice something amiss with her children.

Bran’s accident had distracted her enough, that one of them could have disappeared and she might not have noticed. Every day she spent much of her free time sitting with him. She did her best not to neglect her duties, but it was often difficult. 

One morning, Sansa had asked her to help brush and fix her hair. It was a bit off to start that she hadn’t simply asked one of the servants to help, Sansa took great care and pride in her appearance, and often spent much of the morning with one of the girls twisting it into a style more befitting of a southern lady than one from the stalwart north.

Running the brush through her daughter’s hair, Cat hums softly. Sansa asks her, 

“How much longer until the King and his men leave?”

“Just two more days,” Cat tells her. This seems a good enough time to broach the topic.

“What happened to make you suddenly not wish to marry Prince Joffrey anymore?”

Catelyn had never really been in favor of the match. Southern boys were so different from the world her daughter knew, and she feared her sudden infatuation would cause her to make a rash decision. Still, she was curious what caused the sudden change.

Sansa worries her lip with her teeth.  


“Later that night after the feast, I heard him making fun of Arya. He called her- it was foul, I won’t repeat it.”

Oh. That was really not what Catelyn had expected. Perhaps that would explain why the two sisters had seemed closer than before. 

“And then, later, I heard him being cruel about Bran’s accident. Laughing about it even. Enough that even his own uncle slapped him. How in the world could I marry someone like that?”

She leans forward to wrap her arms around her daughter’s chest and squeeze her. 

“I wasn’t ready to lose you to marriage anyhow.”

Sansa grabs and squeezes her wrist, her eyes focusing somewhere far away.

“It does make me wonder.”

“What’s that sweetheart?”

“If he treats children this way, how will he treat his subjects?”

Catelyn has always been proud of her daughter’s accomplishments and protective of her dreams even when she recognized them as dangerously guileless. Now she’s very proud of her judgement. 

Once she finishes the simple braid Sansa requests, Catelyn fixes the end, gives it a tug and gets up to leave. 

“Don’t worry Sansa, one day you’ll meet a good man, who is brave and good and loves you, and you’ll fall in love and marry him just like you’ve always wanted.”

She leaves and shuts the door, and so can’t hear Sansa’s quiet response of, 

“No, that’s Arya.”

**Bran**

“Any new bird updates?” 

Sansa and Arya had taken to slipping in to visit Bran before bed at night, to touch base. 

“The Reeds are halfway here. Davos has convinced Stannis to let him take Shireen to stay with Renly. He tells him being in a less grim household will be good for her.”

“Oh!” Sansa squeaks with surprise, “That’s probably a good idea, she’ll be safer there.”

“Unless Renly still tries to challenge Stannis for the throne,” Arya adds grimly. 

Bran shakes his head. 

“King Robert’s death is still a bit away, if it still happens at all. Davos hasn’t spoken where he plans to go after Storm’s End, but his maps are to King’s Landing, then up to White Harbor. And he’s smuggled several large crates, full of dragonglass.”

“A smuggler still,“ Sansa says, smiling. 

“Anything of Gendry?” Arya asks, trying not to sound too anxious.

Bran shakes his head again. 

“Not too much. His master has noticed that he knows how to do things he hasn’t taught him yet. Gendry’s being rather mouthy and stubborn with him too-”

“When is he not?”

“I think he’s trying to get himself kicked out so he can leave.”

Arya slumps forward. 

“I wish I could tell him it’s not safe to try and leave by himself, that Davos is probably coming for him.”

“Gendry’s stubborn, you’ve said it enough.” Sansa insists, “Even if we could he might not heed our advice.”

Attempting to change the subject, Bran interjects with, 

“Anything new around Winterfell?”

Arya perks up a bit.

“Jon gave me Needle earlier today, way earlier than he did before!”

“He’s probably noticed you’ve been all morose,” Sansa says, wryly. 

Arya shrugs her off.

“Sneaking off to practice isn’t going to be fun though, especially since I’ve noticed Father watching me more.”

Sansa is suddenly quiet, contemplating her next words. 

“I’m writing a letter to send with Lord Tyrion. I think having his eyes in King’s Landing will be invaluable.”

Bran looks at her askance. His own interactions with the man had been very limited, though admittedly, positive. The special saddle he’d designed had been one of the few things to have truly made him feel like maybe he wasn’t broken. 

“Do you think that wise?”

Sansa’s lips are squeezed in a tight line.

“He is both a clever man and a careful one. Not much can get past him , and I know it might not make sense, but I trust him.”

Arya is still unconvinced, 

“There’s a lot of information to try and stuff into a letter.”

Sansa cocks an eyebrow at her. 

“I might just be laying my claim on a series of nebulous visions. But I’ve got enough bits of information that I shouldn’t that he won’t be able to ignore me. Things he told me in confidence, that no one outside his immediate family should know.”

“Speaking of Lannisters,” Arya interrupts,”...Bran you should be careful, I saw Jamie skulking around here earlier, but Father was sitting with you so he didn’t try anything.”

“Did we ever figure out who sent the assassin after you before?” Sansa asks.

“It was Joffrey, some kind of fucked up misguided sense of mercy. I don’t think he’ll try that now, since all I’ve got are broken bones.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. As if they needed another reason to hate Joffrey.

“Actually, I kind of want to talk to Jamie at some point.”

“Anything urgent to tell him?”

“I thought ‘stop fucking your sister, even if it weren’t disgusting, she’s a horrible person who does her best to make you one too’ might be too on the nose, but it’s all I’ve come up with.”

Arya claps him on the shoulder.

“You will definitely die if you tell him that.”

**Jon**

Jon had known that leaving Winterfell for the Watch was going to be hard. He had still been completely willing to stick to his plans. But in the past week, his resolve was being tested.

Lord and Lady Stark were treating him much the same, Ned with kindness, and Catelyn with barely concealed glee that he was soon going to be out of her hair. Robb still treated him as a brother. But his younger siblings…

Sansa had, just the other day, while outside the Maester’s tower, suddenly thrown her arms about him and declared how much she was going to miss him. It involved more words than Jon could remember her ever sparing him before. Sansa had never been cruel to him, true, but she had dismissed him nearly as much as her mother had. 

Bran’s fall has tested him as well. But then the boy had woken, in near impossible spirits for a child hurt so badly. And he had beamed at Jon when the guards had helped him to the training yard (against Maester Luwin’s recommendations) so he could watch the older boys train. 

Arya had been unusually reticent with him. It’s so unlike her, that it genuinely worries him. It worries him enough that he chooses to give her the gift he’d had made for her several days early. 

She had cackled with joy when presented with the sword, naming it “Needle” with hardly a misstep. He’s later spotted her with it, alone in the training yard, after the evening meal. Her movements were untrained, and unconventional, almost like a dance. He secretly hopes that she’ll never have to use it.

He also swears he hears her mutter something about having “stupid little doll hands,” but he can’t make heads or tails of that. 

**Sansa**

“We have to tell Jon,” Arya insists. 

She’s right, Sansa knows. It’s horrifically unfair to send Jon off unprepared with as much as what they know is going to happen. But how?

“How should we even get him alone?” Bran tries to figure.

“Sansa, you can grab him after we’re all supposed to be in bed, you’re closest. I can sneak down here easily. If anyone catches us, just tell them that we were going to miss Jon terribly, and wanted to spend as much time with him as we could.”

Arya’s plan is a good one, Sansa thinks. It’s mostly true. Even so, she still feels her stomach flutter when she stands outside Jon’s chambers waiting for him to appear, hoping he’s alone, and hoping she’s right that all the servants have finished their business near there.

He is, to their luck. He looks surprised to see her, and she understands. This is entirely unlike her old self, which is why it was a good choice for her to be the one to get him. Young Sansa always followed rules, always did what she was supposed to, rarely even stayed up past when she was supposed to be in bed. And she did not spend her free time consorting with her bastard half-brother.

Which explains Jon’s terribly confused face when she reaches to grasp him by the arm and says, “come with me”. 

“Sansa, what in the wo-”

She drags him down the hallway, and into Bran’s room. Arya is sitting in the chair beside his bed, and Bran has pulled himself up so that he’s sitting unsupported. 

Jon’s eyes track between the two of them slowly, and then back to Sansa, who’s bolting the door just in case. When she finishes, she sits at the end of the bed, and gestures for Jon to do the same on the other side. 

“We wanted-we had to talk to you before…” Sansa trails off. There’s so damn much, how do they even start?

“You’re leaving in what, two days?” Arya asks. 

“...Yes, Uncle Benjen and the others are leaving for the Wall in two days.”

Arya glances at Bran.

“How long-”

Bran shakes his head. 

“Three or four more.”

“What are you-”

Bran takes a deep breath. 

“You will leave in two days, and you will make it to the wall. The other men of the Night’s Watch are concerned about why the Wildlings are fleeing their villages. You will find out. You will rise in the ranks, and you will do great things, but any glory will be for naught.”

Jon is confused. That is putting it lightly. He would almost think they were just trying to be encouraging, but the tone in Bran’s voice…he desperately wants to interrupt him, but he can’t. 

“It will be for naught, because that deserter Father executed a few weeks back was absolutely right, the dead are rising and the Others have returned.”

Jon’s head is swimming. Deserters, white walkers, he wants to accuse them of making up stories, of Bran having spent too much time listening to Old Nan while he was recovering.

“So many people will die, and they will rise as the Night King’s wights-”

Finally, Jon has the voice to interrupt Bran.

“Stop it! I don’t know why you three brought me here if you’re just going to be making up stories-”

“Because we lived them Jon!” Arya interrupts, her voice angry. Genuinely angry, not the anger of an impatient and impudent little girl. “All three of us watched it happen. And now we’re back here, and we won’t fucking let it happen again.”

Admittedly, Arya is often foul-mouthed, but she’s rarely been so casual about it. Jon is choosing to focus on this instead of what she’s said.

“We lived it...and then we came back. There was, some sort of, anomaly or hole, or something, in the middle of the Neck, and we went through it, and we woke up back here, years before. It was a long time,” Sansa admits, “Lots of things happened. Babies were born, people married...lots of people died, but not always at the hands of beasts.”

There’s a tilt to her voice, one full of pain. 

Arya speaks up again. 

“Father was the first. He figured out the secret that got Jon Arryn killed, and they killed him for it too.”

Jon is aghast.

“You’re telling me this and just expecting me to hear it and then leave?”

Sansa takes a deep breath. 

“So much of what happened....It mattered at the time, and it will matter again, but if we don’t deal with the threat the Night King and the white walkers bring, there won’t be anything left in Westeros to fight over.”

Jon sits, contemplative for a moment. 

“What do you think I should do?”

“Just be who you always are,” Arya comments, smiling, “Brave, kind, just. The man Father raised you to be. And know that any rumours you hear about the things we told you are true.”

“You’re going to end up being involved with everything anyway.” Sansa tells him solemnly, “Just because of who you were born.”

There’s a long pause there, and the three Stark siblings think hard on what to say next.

“What would you say,” Bran starts, “If we told you we knew who your mother was?”

Jon freezes. This truly is the one bit of knowledge that has haunted his life, the ever present question. 

“I would ask how you knew, and why you three, and not Father or Mother?”

Sansa has her head bowed, and continues, quietly. 

“What would you say if we told you you were not our brother, but in fact our cousin?”

Jon’s face turns white. His mind turns the statement over in his mind. 

“Uncle BenJen took the black, and Uncle Brandon….”

Bran shakes his head. This was going to be hard enough without them getting side-tracked.

Jon catches his meaning without comment. 

“Aunt Lyanna?” 

When Bran nods softly, Jon’s mind takes off. He’d heard the stories of course, of beautiful, strong-willed, Lyanna Stark. And the story of her kidnapping, rape and death. 

“Wha-how, what- what are you saying?”

“We’re saying,” Arya starts, with her usual candor, “That Father was right, you may not have our name, but you are a Stark…but you are also, a Targaryen.”

Jon feels his throat seize. He wants to yell, wants to demand an explanation, but no words will leave his mouth.”

Sansa reaches out to gently touch him on the shoulder. 

“It doesn’t change how we feel about you. You’ll always be our brother, and to us, you’ll always be a Stark.”

“Does...does anyone else know this?”

The three look at each other, and let Bran speak. 

“There were four other people on the boat with us when we went back, and they all remember. One of them is Howland Reed.”

Bran waits for a look of recognition, to be sure that Jon remembered Father speaking of the man. 

“He is the only other person alive who was with Father the day you were born. And he can confirm the rest of our story as well.”

“Is he-”

“Him and his son and daughter are on the road north to find us. They want to change things as much as we do. We were hoping he would get here before you and Benjen leave so we could do everything at once- we weren’t even sure if we should tell anyone at first. But we had to.”

When Bran finishes, Arya interjects. 

“You were still alive, and helping us try and save the realm. You should have been with us when we went back. But you’re here now, and we’re going to help you. We couldn't just send you off not knowing anything. Especially since, you know, with the Targaryen thing, had to make sure you wouldn't find a way to try and fuck a blood relative.”

All of them groan and this and Sansa peels off one of her gloves and flings it at Arya

Jon tilts his head up to look at them. 

“How are you even sure that anything will be different?”

“Because it already is,” Sansa tells him gravely. 

“I wasn’t here this time before, “ Bran admits, “The fall didn’t just break my leg. I was comatose for a month, and when I woke up, I was partially paralyzed. I haven’t walked properly in nearly ten years.”

Well shit, Jon thinks, this is so much bigger than anything he’s ever considered. It’s overwhelming. There are so many things he wants to ask. He looks over all their faces, and swears he can see the ghosts of those years worn on top of their youth. 

“There are so many things I want to ask you.”

“We don’t have much time,” Arya admits, “You’re leaving in a day. But we’ll answer what we can.”

“Especially since we have a favor or two to ask of you,” Sansa adds.

“Nearly ten years…” Jon says slowly, “What’s the most shocking thing that happened?”

“Arya got married,” Sansa inserts abruptly, before anyone can object. 

“Really Sansa? You lead with that?” Arya mutters. 

“I was pretty shocked when I found out, and I’ve seen nearly everything that’s ever happened.” Bran says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Arya crosses her arms over her chest and scowls. 

“If I’m getting dragged out in the mud here, we should bring up that time you lived in a cave for a year and came out an all seeing bird prophet.”

“That’s a pretty long story,” Bran retorts. 

Jon leans back against the blanket. He’ll listen as long as they can talk.


	3. Chapter 3

**Davos**

Leaving Shireen again is the hardest thing he’s ever done. 

Waking up in bed with Marya had been surreal enough, it had seemed like it had been decades since he had seen her. Going through the keep to encounter all seven of his sons, even Dale, too, had felt nearly like a dream. They’d come to visit, he remembered suddenly. Steffon’s name-day had just passed. 

That whole day, he had tried to enjoy it. 

When the older boys began to leave, is when he had to set his plan in motion. 

Faking summons from Stannis was easy enough, turns out he had been planning to send for him soon anyway. Getting to Dragonstone was also shockingly easy. 

Stannis had been his usual self, gruff and straight-forward. He had asked him to help him go over changes to shipping schedules what the effects of the late summer droughts on the tides. It had ended far too slowly.

Then on his way out, he had heard a small laugh. 

“I’m supposed to be in lessons, but I had to come see you Onion Knight!”

Shireen was as small as she had been, her arms and legs had not yet begun to lengthen. Her face still bore the roundness of youth, her blue eyes shining. 

Davos’s heart seizes as he allows himself to hug her tightly, without breaking.  


“Not having anymore dragon-dreams are you child?” he asks, remembering the nightmares that had plagued her. 

Shireen looks confused. The comet, Davos remembers, her nightmares had begun with the coming of the comet. 

“I haven’t dreamed of any dragons, I wish I did though, it sounds more exciting than the boat dreams I’ve had lately.”

He leaves her with just that single hug, trying his best to banish the image in his head of her burning. 

Returning home, Davos recalls that Maester Cressen had once suggested betrothing Shireen to Robyn Arryn and sending her to the Eyrie, but Stannis hadn’t agreed. 

Davos couldn’t imagine marrying Shireen off to that sickly, ill-tempered boy, but he wondered if he could somehow convince Stannis to let her be fostered somewhere else. 

Renly, it hits Davos suddenly. Stannis’s brother had no children, but the court at Storm’s End was always bright and lively, fitting with it’s Lord’s showy and dramatic personality. And perhaps with his daughter so near, Stannis might not wish to lay siege to it. 

It ended up, in the end, not truly being difficult at all.

“Storm’s End is the Baratheon ancestral home, it would be good for Shireen to see it. And I think having her around might put some responsibility into your brother, being that he currently has no heirs.”

Stannis’s eyes are hard to read, part distaste, part uncertainty. 

“Last he saw her, Renly said she was ugly.”

Davos laughs softly in derision. 

“Your brother may be thoughtless, but he isn’t needlessly cruel. Shireen may not be a great beauty, but she is a sweet, good child with a fine mind. She will win Renly over as easy as she won me over.”

He tries not to sound desperate, but Stannis is already speaking of the mystics, and he knows Melisandre may soon come to him.

And Stannis agrees, and Davos feels like maybe he’s won this time. That maybe they will win this time.

A week later, the agreement had been pounded out. Davos wonders if perhaps Renly simply saw a way to one-up his brother, but if it ends with Shireen safe, then it’s good either way.

Stannis asks him to accompany her. He would have offered anyway. 

“Where are we going now, Onion Knight?” She asks him.

“We’re going on a quest.”

“Me too?”

“Well we’re going to need someone to read me all the books about all the old quests, so I know how I’m doing it right.”

There’s a touch of disappointment on her face. He takes her by the hand to help her into the wheelhouse.

“I have to go and rescue someone, then we have to ride north and try to stop some monsters.”

“Who are you rescuing? A princess in a tower?”

Davos laughs. Shireen did often have an affinity for the trapped princesses. 

“A prince perhaps, though he would likely spit if he heard me call him that. I need to help him get back to his princess.”

Shireen wrinkles her nose. 

“Not Prince Joffrey right?”

Davos can’t even imagine a laugh here. If half the stories he’s heard are true, the crown prince was more likely to need people rescued from him. 

“No, this boy doesn’t even know what he is yet. But he will rise to greatness anyway. I’d like you to meet him someday, he’s one of your cousins actually.”

“What’s his name?”

“Gendry”. 

He could remember the boy before, in his cell hopeless and ashamed. He could remember the man he became, who had wanted to help people even before learning he was of noble blood. Davos had believed Danaerys had intended to legitimize him for his heroism during the battle against the dead. She hadn’t had the chance. And part of Davos wondered if he would have even wanted that. 

“Why does he need to be rescued?”

Davos sighs deeply. 

“Because some people with a lot of power will want to hurt him, and he can’t save himself from where he is.”

A bastard boy on the streets of Flea Bottom. He was beholden to his apprenticeship unless released, and any route out of the city would be fraught with danger. Bandits, pirates, men who might try and sell him, all the worse if anyone got a good look and maybe figured out who he was. Ned Stark had figured out the Queen’s secret easily enough, but it would be a falsehood to say no one in King’s Landing ever questioned her fair haired children before.

“Do you know how you’re going to rescue him?”

That makes Davos smile. 

“Do you remember why I told you your father cut off the tips of my fingers before knighting me?”

“Because you were a smuggler?”

“Which means I am excellent at getting things out of places and getting them where they aren’t supposed to be without being found out.”

He put his fingers to his lips to remind Shireen that she shouldn’t tell this to anyone, then taps her on the nose and shuts the door and moves to mount his horse so that they could leave.

He hopes he’s right. 

**Sansa**

Sansa carries Lady through the hallway and into her chambers. When she turns, she notices Arya sitting on her bed and yelps, dropping Lady to the floor. The wolf, now the size of a regular wolf, gives her a look of disgust, and pads off, taking a step onto the trunk at the end of Sansa’s bed and climbing up to curl up and fall asleep. 

Arya cocks an eyebrow. 

“I thought you had more nerve than that.”

“What are you doing here?” Sansa asks her, slipping off her shoes and stockings.

“Can I stay with you tonight? I had a bad nightmare last night.”

Sansa sighs, slipping one hand up to undo the ties at the top of her gown. 

“Can you help me undo my straps?”

Arya reaches out and yanks the strings, loosening them. Sansa slips out of her gown and into her nightshift with ease before speaking again. 

“Should I even ask which one?”

There were so many to choose from that they were both having. The Long Night nightmares, the watching Father get beheaded again nightmares, the ones where going through the anomaly just put them straight back in Hell (Ramsey for Sansa, Harrenhal for Arya). 

“The one about Hardhorne. I think I had it because Jon left yesterday.”

Damn. Neither of them had been at Hardhorne, but Jon’s stories were so vivid and descriptive. The piles of bodies being climbed by walkers before they too rose, the people who ran straight into the water, clawing their way towards the boats trying to run. They had both had this one too. 

Arya distracts herself by petting Lady. 

“You really shouldn’t carry her everywhere now, she’s getting too big.”

“I’ll carry her for as long as I can. It will make me stronger.”

“She’s going to be bigger than you soon.”

“Then maybe someday she’ll carry me instead.”

Arya is quiet after that, and pulls off the cloak she’d thrown over her night shift in case one of the servants came by. She leaves it on the trunk next to Lady. 

“Bran told me the Reeds should be here sometime tomorrow.” Sansa tells her as she crawls under her furs. 

Arya bites her lip. 

“That means we’re going to have to tell everyone tomorrow.”

Sansa laughs hollowly. 

“Jon was hard enough...I can’t imagine how we’re going to tell Robb or Mother.”

Arya feels her stomach tighten. She could barely look at Gray Wind when he followed along with Robb after having seen what had become of them before. 

“I can’t believe you managed to have the eloquence to tell what we know to Tyrion in just a single letter.”

“Well it was pretty rambling and confusing. I told you, I told him I saw things in visions. That King Robert was in danger, that people would look more closely at Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella. Not to trust a damn thing Littlefinger says. More politics, fewer ice zombies. Besides, I had that trump card to make sure he paid my words due.”

Arya frowns. 

“I saw you give him the letter when he was leaving with Jon. What on earth did you tell him?”

She hadn’t been close enough to hear their conversation, But whatever Sansa had whispered in the Imp’s ear had affected him enough that his eyes had gone wide and he’d stood in the same spot, seemingly dazed until Uncle Benjen had prodded him and he’d tucked the letter into his satchel and rejoined everyone. 

“I told him the name of his first wife.”

Arya’s surprised. 

“I never knew he was married before you.”

“Most people don’t. No one outside his family should know anything about it. That’s why it worked.”

“What happened?”

Sansa smiles grimly. 

“It’s not my story to tell. The only reason I think he even told me was because we were in the crypts sure we were going to die that night. Airing our sins and all that.”

Arya rolls over to face her. 

“I guess I just don’t really understand your relationship with him. I couldn’t imagine you being so close to someone you were forced to marry.”

Sansa laughs. It is somewhat ludicrous, and her thirteen year old self would have screamed in horror had she known. 

“He was forced into it as much as I was, and he was always kind to me. Beyond that, he tried to protect me, to make me feel better about things that happened. Though of course there was no way he could.”

Sansa turns suddenly pensive. 

“And I got a front seat to exactly what his family thinks of him. Jamie aside, the rest of the Lannisters seemed to delight in tormenting him as much as they did tormenting than me. And it made me so incredibly angry. He once told me that people were going to spend a lot of time underestimating me, and that ended up being incredibly true too.”

There’s a long silence after, and Sansa really doesn’t want to have to talk about this anymore. 

“Get some sleep Arya. Tomorrow’s going to be rough enough as it is.”

Laying all the way back down, she feels Arya shift beside her. 

“Uhh, fair warning? I’ve been told I’m an angry cuddler.”

Sansa’s eyes pop back open. 

What on earth was an angry cuddler?

She finds out the next morning when Arya has managed to migrate halfway down the bed and wrap both her arms so tightly around one of Sansa’s legs that she’s woken with the limb heavy and prickly, and entirely unable to stand up. 

**Bran**

Bran wakes, his stomach already in knots. 

He gazes out the window, noting the clear skies. He notices Summer isn’t sleeping underneath like he usually did, perhaps he had an early start. 

He manages to dress himself, though he only has one pair of breeches that have been cut to fit over his cast. His boot takes the longest, but he laces it up tightly before reaching for the heavy metal crutches Mikken had made for him when it became clear that he was not up for staying in bed until his leg healed.

Hobbling on the crutches had been hard to learn. The splinted wrist was one thing, but he could hardly admit that it had been near on a decade since he had walked properly at all. 

So at least he had an excuse for his staggering.

In the hallway, he bumps into Arya, who’s rubbing the back of her head. 

“What happened?”

“Sansa pulled my hair until I woke up and let her leg go.”

He’s not going to question that. 

Rather than join the rest of the family at breakfast, Bran has Arya slip in and grab them a platter of oatcakes with honey and sliced apples. 

“Where are we going?” Arya asks.

“The stables.”

She makes a face. 

“They won’t let you ride with the cast.”

“I’m not going to ride,” Bran tells her, “I’m going to see Willas.”

Arya’s stares at him confused for a moment before it hits her. 

“Oh, Hodor.”

“That’s not his name,” Bran says roughly. “So I won’t call him that. He died protecting me, that’s the least I can do. Especially since the other is my fault.”

Arya is quiet most of their slow walk out to the stable. Bran has never been overly forthcoming about what exactly happened to everyone north of the Wall. 

When they reach the stables Willas is finishing up with the morning chores. The other grooms have already gone down to breakfast, leaving the three of them alone.

“Hodor,” he says, upon seeing them. 

“Have breakfast with us,” Bran says, and Arya offers him the platter. 

The three of them sit and eat their cakes in silence. Arya licking a bit of honey off her thumb and Bran leaning over to steal one of her apples. 

When they’re finished, Willas stands, and with a “Hodor,” leaves them to haul water for the troughs.

Bran chews thoughtfully on his last bite while Arya wipes off the tray. 

Arya finally fixes Bran with a gaze while he chews. 

“You’ve been weird since you told us the Reeds were probably going to arrive today, so what is it?”

Bran doesn’t say anything, and avoids her eyes. 

“Come on, out with it. Sansa said Meera left almost immediately when you two returned to Winterfell, and you didn’t even mention her again. When you lead us down to the Neck, she didn’t even look at you. What in seven hells happened?”

“Nothing. And that was the problem. We were north for, gods it must have been two or three years. Meera helped keep us safe, she hunted to keep us fed. Underneath that tree, she did her best to keep me sane even though she seemed completely lost after Jojen died. After...Everything that had happened to us, everything I had felt...I suddenly didn’t care. I would have died a hundred times over without her, it didn’t matter“

He’s quiet for a long time. 

“I remember, the way Meera was looking at me, before I touched the weirwood tree to see what happened at the Tower of Joy. If she had looked at me like that before...I probably would have died of a heart attack. That’s what she said before she left, was that Brandon Stark died in that cave.”

“Well you didn’t, and you’re alive again,” Arya tells him. “So quit acting like you did die. We all get second chances now, that’s sort of the point isn’t it?”

“All three of them have cause to hate me.”

“Well they definitely will if you stay this way when they all show up. So come on, and lets try and prepare.”

She helps him get back onto his crutches and they hobble back to the keep to try and head off the storm. 

**Jojen**

Jojen Reed was not used to being confused. His prophetic dreams aside, he had always been clever, and good at his lessons. Feeling completely in over his head was not something he was used to. 

But two weeks before when he had woken to his older sister running into his room and hugging him tightly he had been completely at a loss for words. Normally, he would have thought she was ill, but when she dragged him down to breakfast, their Father had been in a similar state. Both of them had looked incredibly tired, but somehow energized, with wild looks in their eyes, babbling on about things that didn’t make any sense. 

Then they sat down, and tried to tell him, and it made even less sense. 

And even after they had left Greywater Watch, it hadn’t stopped.

He wakes the last day of their travels with a feeling of creeping dread in his gut. 

And for the first since she lost her mind, Meera seems as unsure as him. 

They’re packing up camp, Father leading the horses to water when he finally brings it up. 

“You seem anxious. You and Father were so sure we had to go north to Winterfell when we left, now it seems like you don’t want to.”

Meera laughs. 

“We were both so sure we had to go north before. And look how that turned out.”

Jojen doesn’t really know what to say to that. She’d told him he had died on the journey before, which explained her exuberant reaction to seeing him again, but it didn’t really explain her despair. True, she had also mentioned that his body had immediately exploded, but still…

“I know you were probably upset that I died…”

“It wasn’t just you,” she cuts him off. “Everyone. The last time I left home, everyone around me ended up dying, you were just the first. We were under there for over a year, I didn’t even know why anymore, but I trusted the Children of the forest. Then the Night King found us and attacked, and they all died. All of that history, and they died. Then Summer died protecting us, and Hodor died so we could get away, and we ran. “

They’ve finished the packs, and so Meera just pokes at the ground with a stick when she finally continues. 

“We got back to Winterfell, and it turned out even Rickon and Osha had died after we left them. I wanted to go home, but I didn’t feel like I could. I went to talk to Bran, and it was like he was gone too. Whatever the Raven did to him in that cave, his body was still alive, but what made him him was gone. He was little more than a shell.”

Father returns to the clearing, leading the horses. They begin loading the packs onto them, when Meera continues. Her voice goes quiet, with a tone in it Jojen’s not sure he’s ever heard come from her before.

“I thought what the two of us had gone through- as hard as it had been, I thought it was special. I thought it was important. I don’t know anymore, I still don’t know if it was worth it. The end of the world still came after all. I don’t know what I’ll do if we get to Winterfell and Bran is still...that thing.”

Jojen can’t really say anything to soothe his sister’s words, so he just listens. He supposes that must do some good too. 

They ride for a bit in silence. They’re not far, could reach the keep by mid-day easily. Jojen can still feel Meera sitting stiffly in the saddle. They could have taken a third horse, but neither of them are good riders, having not had much way to practice, given that horses don’t get along well in bogs.

As the day goes on, he suddenly feels Meera go still. 

“Either of you hear that?” She asks, eyes staring straight off into the trees. When neither him nor Father react, she slides off the horse, and grasps her spear. 

They aren’t far from Winter Town, it could just be another traveler or someone out hunting, but Meera’s muscles are pulled taut as though she expects this to end in a fight.

She’s still, still as a rock upon a cliff, when the leaves of the underbrush shift and a figure emerges from them. 

Jojen feels his heart quicken when he realizes the figure is a wolf. 

Meera, on the other hand, softens. 

“Summer?” She calls out, in an unsure voice. 

Both Jojen and their father watch as Meera kneels in the road, and the wolf approaches her slowly, carefully. Jojen watches in amazement as the beast rests it’s muzzle on top of her knees, and she reaches to rub the top of it’s head. 

“You did everything you could,” She assures the wolf, “You were your best, you did your best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gendry had a section in here originally, but the length was getting out of hand, so he gets to wait til the next.


	4. Chapter 4

**Gendry**

Gendry had always hated King’s Landing. The crowds, which somehow managed to make the already near intolerable late summer heat even more unbearable. The smell, of the smoke from food stalls, of shit, both animal and human, made worse in the humidity, and the smell of just those animals and humans pressed into far too small a space. 

And the noise, the noise was the worst. Hooves and wheels squeaking. Shouts from men and yells from children, and the thundering of their feet. Again, the noise that would emanate from a crowd forming as it stopped being made of people and started becoming a beast all its own. Noise so thick you could hardly hear yourself think, and at all hours of the night, making sleep a distant dream. 

When he’d woken on his cot in the back of the forge, Gendry had been certain that he had died and this was one of the seven hells. 

It had been enough to convince him, when he’d reached out and Arya wasn’t there. After all those years apart, he’d become accustomed to her presence, dependent on it, nearly instantly. He hadn’t believed all the stories about marriage rendering two into one, but here he was, feeling lost without her. 

He remembered the first night after she killed the Night King. The single night where they thought they would get peace. He’d wanted to join in the celebration, but she’d slipped off by herself. She had never been one for glory. 

He’d found her in one of Winterfell’s underground hot springs, trying to scrub the dirt and ash from her skin, while hissing in pain when the water touched her wounds.

He had tried to help her fix herself up, though his stitches were even clumsier than her own, a fact which she made perfectly sure to remind him of. 

After, he had gotten up to leave and she’d reached and grabbed his hand. 

“Stay with me?” Arya had asked him, her eyes searching. 

Part of him hadn’t known how to respond. He hadn’t been shocked when he’d woken the night before with her already dressed and preparing for battle. He hadn’t really let his mind wander to what would become of the two of them after. 

“Of course,” he had said, his tone casual. They had redressed and were leaving the spring then. He had merely supposed that she would want company joining the feast, or (perhaps foolishly) that she might want him to join her in her bed again.

Arya had looked at him then, differently than before. As if looking for understanding. 

“No, I mean...for good.”

His heart ached when he recalled her face. When he recalled his own mind when he’d realized what she meant. 

And then his days began and the ache only got more acute. 

Then the pigeon had appeared. Arya’s younger brother had always been...inscrutable...but he understands the significance, that the boy had had a kind of affinity for birds. And at least, in that moment, he accepted that he wasn’t crazy. But he still was going to have to deal with his life as a fifteen year old apprentice again.

He could bow his head respectfully, and do his work as told, but his years had soured him. The fire in his gut tells him not to accept anyone who speaks down to him, who makes demands. It tells him that they can’t treat him like that just because they think they are the ones in charge.

Mott gives him shit for it, as he probably should. But his traitorous mouth still talks back. His work is good, better than it should be, or else Mott would have turned him out on the street. 

That would be better, Gendry mused. If he got turned out, he could try and find his way north. 

But in his cot at night, his mind wanders, and part of him can’t fight the feeling that even fleeing is a beautiful dream. 

It’s a foggy, humid sort of day when it happens. He’d stopped to get a bowl for the mid-day meal. This particular shop was one of the usual, stuffed full of other laborers and the destitute trying to silence their empty stomachs. 

He’s barely has a chance to scoop the good bits of meat from his bowl when he’s hears a voice. 

“That’s him.”

He doesn’t even have time to turn his head before the blow comes. The side of his head explodes with pain and he feels the hot trickle of blood.

He tries to stand and turn, but falls to the ground when he’s struck by another blow. 

He manages to catch a glimpse, finally. The man’s thin, ratlike face reveals him. He can’t remember the name, Cassaway or Cossway, something like that. Not nobility, but a merchant of some note. He had wanted a proper pair of gauntlets made. 

He probably shouldn’t have made the crack he did, about who he was going to be fighting, some haggling crone. But the man’s face had rubbed him the wrong way, and his words even more so. It was bad enough, being called “boy” again. Being called it by a strutting arsehole who clearly thought quite a bit of himself was far worse still. The man had gotten in his face after it, and Gendry could still remember his sour breath. 

Well he was clearly going to pay for that crack, Gendry thought as he feels the skin of back begin to smart from striking the edge of his fallen chair. 

Cassaway or Cossway, or whatever the fuck his name is, brought friends apparently, because when Gendry tries to stagger to his feet someone else he doesn’t see tries to grab him. And so he bolts. 

The dirt roads pound roughly against his feet. He doesn’t make it far before he’s sure he’s being followed. He doesn’t slow down, he keeps moving, though his head is beginning to pound from the wound. 

There’s no where he could even go. It’s not like he has friends here. If he went back to the shop, they would just follow him there, and get Mott involved in this mess. He should have listened to his master’s words and remembered how to keep his tongue. 

He’s run so far he’s nearly down by the docks. He pauses for just a moment, trying to catch his breath, before a hand grabs him roughly and drags him into an alleyway. 

“Gods above boy, I get in in the morning thinking I’m going to have to scour Flea Bottom to find you and you wander right in front of me!”.

Ser Davos must have been a handsome man in his youth, before his years touched him, and right now he is the most beautiful creature Gendry has ever seen.

“Maybe it was a good day to piss someone off,” is all Gendry can respond. 

Davos rolls his eyes, but his words are sympathetic. 

“We all think we won’t get full of ourselves when we rise above our station, but it’s not easy to accept the way people treated you. I’m guessing even before this all happened it made you angry enough.”

He reaches out to shake Gendry’s hand firmly. 

“I’m guessing you don’t have any belongings to retrieve?”

Gendry shakes his head. 

“Then let’s get on my ship and get the hell out of here.”

When they reach the docks, Gendry gazes up at the Black Bertha in awe. 

“Not going to pretend,” he admits to Davos, “When I woke up I was fairly certain I had gone crazy. Still not sure we both haven’t.”

“If this is what crazy is like, “ Davos tells him with relish, “Then I will take it.”

They board the ship, and Davos introduces him to his crew, has someone hand him a line and show him the ropes. Gendry still has no sea legs, even on a ship as large as the Black Bertha. It takes all his energy not to lose his meal over the railings. But as King’s Landing begins to disappear on the horizon, Gendry feels his stomach begin to flutter again, this time in anticipation. 

**Sansa**

They were going to have to explain so much today. 

Her stomach is completely unsettled all through breakfast. Her oatcakes feel like ash in her mouth. Even Mother notices, asking her if she feels ill. 

“I’m fine.” she insists, “Just a bit out of sorts.”

“Perhaps you should sit out today’s lessons, take a rest.”

Sansa nods, but she has no intention of returning to her chambers. 

She walks and finds Arya and Bran, who were sneaking back from the stables. 

“What should we do while we wait?”

“We could just take Lady and sit in the yard.” Arya suggests. 

Sansa shakes her head. 

“We should find Father. We should give him a bit of a head’s up before this all comes down around him. And see if there’s anything important that might get put off by it.”

“Do we know where he is?”

And as one, they all look to Bran, who sighs deeply. 

“One of these days I’m going to stop letting you make me do this in order to avoid having to walk.”

And with that complaint, his eyes turn white briefly. 

“He’s in the training yard with Robb, Theon and Ser Rodrick.”

“Well,” Arya says, “At least we’ll get some entertainment before this all.”

They slip onto one of the walkways above, sitting with their feet over the edge. It’s on the far side, and they probably won’t be visible unless someone knew they were there. Bran sits sideways as to not dangle his cast. 

Father is sparring with Robb. Robb was the family member that Sansa found she could look at the least now. Her joy at seeing Father and Mother again had overrode the lingering horror at their deaths.

Robb was different. Even if Sansa’s romantic heart hadn’t been so torn by his ill-advised marriage, the image Joffrey had put into her head of what had become of his body would have been stuck in her head from the get-go. 

And down below them, Robb is at the peak she remembers. His hair is perfect, his stance solid. He follows directions, and doesn’t gloat. There’s a hint of loneliness in his eyes, probably that Jon isn’t here to spar with as he usually was. Robb had always treated Jon just as another brother. It will hurt them all beyond belief if they can’t do anything to save him, in a way that it won’t for Mother and Father.

In her sadness, Sansa turns her stare to Theon. 

“What are we going to do about Theon?” She questions the others. 

Bran laughs, a hard rough sort of laugh. 

“It’s taking all my strength not to gather a basket of rocks and pelt him with them, even though I know that’s not fair.”

“Without Robb having to go to war he might never betray us,” Arya comments, “It almost seems cruel to admit I never really liked him even before. He was always such a lech, and he liked to mock me almost half as much as you did,” she says, pointing to Sansa. 

“He always seemed to know he was a hostage,” is Sansa’s take on it, “And didn’t seem to realize we were really too young to understand.”

She studies the man a bit. He is just as cocky as she remembers. 

“I know the man he became better than both of you. But I can’t, I won’t ask anyone to go through what the two of us did just to become a better person.”

The other two nod grimly in agreement. 

The morning almost comes to an end, and the men break for the mid-day meal. 

All three of them take a breath, and stand to try and catch their Father by himself. Arya helps Bran up and gives him his crutches. The metal scraping the wood makes them move slowly, but Robb has gone on ahead to the Great Hall, and Ned is bringing up the rear when the three children ambush him. 

**Ned**

“Arya, you should still be with Septa Mordane,” he scolds, then turns his eye to Sansa, “It’s good to see you feeling better, daughter.”

The three of them continue to look at him warily, and Ned feels a cold sensation begin to creep down the back of his neck. 

Finally, Sansa breaks the silence. Arya and Bran had both made it clear that she could speak for all of them if need be and they wouldn’t object, but in her younger body she feels the confidence she had earned in her years slipping away. 

“Do-are you planning on doing anything important after the meal Father?”

To say Ned looks surprised it an understatement. 

“I was going to go over some of the planned repairs in town before winter proper begins,” he states, he doesn’t want them to move on, he wants them to speak their due, to tell him what’s been going on. “But it’s nothing I can’t put off.”

Sansa takes a deep breath. 

“You’ve...probably noticed we haven’t been exactly acting like ourselves the last few weeks. “

The cold feeling spreads to the rest of Ned’s body. It is true, but he had used all that he could to try and ignore the changes in his children. To pretend he was simply seeing something where there was nothing. And some of the changes, like the newfound friendship between Sansa and Arya, had been greatly appreciated, especially by Catelyn. 

“Well, there is an explanation, but it’s not an easy one, or one we thought you would easily believe.” Sansa’s voice is wavering, but it has an unexpected power behind it. “That’s why we held off telling you, we didn’t want you to think all three of us had somehow been struck mad.”

“Why now then?”

Bran steps in this time. 

“Old friends are coming to Winterfell. They should arrive sometime today, and two of them can verify our story, so we thought it would be easier to wait until they arrived. But for now, lets just go eat.”

Ned lacks an appetite after that conversation. His mind is running a mile a minute, trying to piece what his children had told him. 

To their credit, Arya, Sansa and Bran seem as unsteady as he feels. Arya is the only one who seems to be able to eat, scarfing down her stew like a little wolf. Bran, he notes, is especially pale and quiet. Sansa is eating little, and her face keeps going through a cycle, of excited girl to nervous wreck. 

He spares a glance at his wife beside him, one of the only at this meal who seems her normal self.

He’s just managed to barely clear his plate when a guard enters the Great Hall. 

“My Lord, my Lady,” he starts, “There are unannounced visitors at the East Gate,” the man spares a glance at Bran, “And one of your children’s beasts is with them.”

Bran laughs quietly, “Oh, that’s where Summer’s been all day.” The laugh sounds almost empty, and the boy is just as white as he has been all meal. 

“Are our visitors familiar?” Ned ask the guard, who nods. 

“Lord Howland Reed, and his children.”

Old friends, he remembered Bran had said. That was true, but none of his children had ever met anyone from House Reed. He himself had not seen his old friend’s children since they were themselves only toddling. His wife had sat the trip out, keeping herself busy at Winterfell with Robb. 

“Well,” Cat starts, giving Ned a look that asks ‘did you know anything about this?’ without being accusatory, “Let’s get this all cleared out and welcome them properly.”

The servants clear the table, and move the furniture to its usual position. Ned has taken his place on the dais, with his children at his side. Cat and Robb sit to his right, the younger three to his left, Sansa at his side, and Bran on the end so he can leave his cast and crutches stuck out to the side. Bran is somehow even paler than he’s been, but Arya reaches an arm out to steady him. 

He swears he hears her whisper, “Don’t you dare faint, we need you.”

Bran is steadied a bit when Jory enters first, trailed by Summer, settles down in front of Bran's spot at the table.

Sansa is sitting tall at his side. Her shoulders are straight, but not stiff, and her face is carefully serene. It looks like she was born for this, and Ned’s not sure where it came from.

When the three figures enter, Ned tries to get a look at them.

Howland Reed looks much as Ned remembers him. Short, and sandy-haired, with the years having added more lines to his face. He also looks gravely serious. His son by his side, looks much his double, though thinner and paler. Unlike his father, Jojen Reed looks completely befuddled as to why he’s here. 

Ned turns his eye to Meera. He’s remembered her a bit better, a child of four when he’d seen her last. Now she was at most fifteen, a small fifteen at that. She’s dressed boyishly, carrying her spear on her back. And her face….

Her face is the image of the flashes he’s seen on his own daughter’s faces the last few weeks. She looks as though she has seen the end of the world.

Despite his unease, Ned stands to greet them. 

“It’s good to see you again, my family and I welcome you to Winterfell.”

And then something utterly bizarre happens. Lord Reed turns his attention from Ned to Sansa. 

“I take it we’re starting from the beginning then, my Lady?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ned sees his eldest daughter smile wryly. 

“I’m afraid we didn’t feel we could spring this on people just ourselves, or we would be dismissed. It seemed prudent to wait for some of our other companions to back up our story, and who could help us provide proof.”

“Any word from the others who were with us?”

Bran speaks up, 

“Both are in King’s Landing as of this morning. They should be traveling soon.”

His voice is thin, and careful, Ned notes. And with a start, he realizes Meera is staring at his son, looking as though she might be ill. And Bran, for his part, will not meet her eye. 

Sansa’s voice cuts through again, and she gestures to one of the servants.

“Can you bring our guests chairs? This might take a while.”

The girl, Ellyn is her name, Ned believes, obeys. It’s an easy request, but Ned is still knocked off center. 

The three of them sit, and Sansa speaks up again. 

“Sorry for this, Mother and Father, but this is a very long story, and I fear it might take a while.”

Further down the table, Ned hears Arya whisper, 

“Why do I get the feeling she had that memorized?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, turns out I had like 1000+ words of feelings about Gendry being stuck working medieval retail again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lets call this one a "group" POV

The whole room was silent for a time. There is so much to tell, and no one seems to know where to start. 

Sansa speaks up first, choosing her words carefully, and speaking rather slowly. 

“I told Father that there was a reason the three of us have been acting strangely for a while,” she gestures at her younger siblings, “It’s because-”

She falters. 

“There’s really no easy way to say this. We haven’t been acting like ourselves, because ourselves are older than this. For us, this is our past. One moment, things seemed normal- as normal as it could be- then the next, we woke up and we were back, what must have been nearly ten years in our pasts.”

“Ten years!” Catelyn’s voice interrupts. 

Sansa does her best not to let her mother’s words break her streak. 

Lord Reed gives a word. 

“It was closer to eight and a half, but I understand, given the circumstances, why time-keeping might not have been a priority.”

Arya mutters off to Sansa’s side. 

“Only eight years? It felt so much longer.”

“How can you expect us to believe this? It’s absolute madness” Robb interjects, his face drained of color. He is the only member of the family who hadn’t really noticed a change in his younger siblings. 

Sansa takes a deep breath. 

“Given what happened in those years, if this is madness, I would still take it. But if it is madness, we all share it. We all remember things the same, and everything started off happening just the same.”

“Everything started off…” is all Ned can input in the conversation right now. Whatever he expected his children to tell him, it was not this. 

“I’m guessing, Mother,” Sansa gently asks, looking in her direction, “That you already got the message from Aunt Lysa about Jon Arryn’s death not being an accident?”

Almost imperceptibly, Catelyn nods. She doesn’t understand, she told no one but Ned about that letter. They hadn’t even really had time to follow up properly, with the chaos that Bran’s accident had caused. 

“She was right, it wasn’t. But it wasn’t the Lannisters like she suggested. You and Father read that letter, and Father took me and Arya to King’s Landing, intending to investigate into her suggestion. He found out why she would have thought that was what happened, and-”

Sansa feels her voice hitch in her throat. 

“And they killed you for it.”

Ned feels his blood go cold, and hears his wife and elder son gasp, Robb covering his mouth and leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table.

“But it won’t happen again, “ Arya inserts fiercely, “We’ve already seen that things don’t have to happen the way they did before.”

“Don’t take this as insolence, “ Reed questions, “But what has made you so certain?”

Sansa leans over and gestures to where Bran is sitting. He shifts, moves his left leg so the cast is more visible, and gestures at it with his splinted hand. 

“The reason I woke up laughing after my fall-” He looks straight at Ned, “I’m sorry, I know that probably scared you pretty bad- was because when I fell before, it was worse. I was comatose for a month, and when I finally woke up, I couldn’t walk anymore. I haven’t walked at all since then.”

Ned feels his son’s words settle in his mind. He remembers that the boy had barely seemed fazed at all by his injury, regardless of the rest of his attitude. Out of the corner of his eye, he notes Meera jerk and her gaze shift, almost imperceptibly. 

“If we-you’ve already changed what led to Ned’s death, then what else…” Cat asks, her voice wavering. 

Sansa and Lord Reed both shake their heads. 

“Those eight and a half years...so very much has happened. There’s so much more to tell.”

Arya cuts in. She can’t stand anymore pussy-footing around the most important part of the topic. 

“Remember that deserter from the Night’s Watch you executed a little while back? He was right.”

A freeze goes over the table. No one moves. 

“The white walkers are back, the Night King is gathering his army over the wall, and they will attack. “

Sansa interrupts her before she can continue, 

“The Night’s Watch is already dealing with wildlings trying to flee over the wall because of them.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Robb cuts in, “White walkers? Like from Old Nan’s stories? They all died a thousand years ago, if they were ever really real at all.”

“Easy enough to say,” Meera says quietly, the first words she’s spoken, “Until there’s one running at you and swinging an axe in your face.”

“And the Long Night did come. Darkness came over the land, and the dead attacked. The Night King lead them, and though….”

“Though he did fall,” Arya interjects. She will take no credit for that. Especially for how little good it ended up doing. “The dead continued to rise, all over the realms, Westeros, Essos, as far as Asshai.”

“We don’t usually bury the dead in the Neck,” Lord Reed adds, “Or they tend to come up to the surface again as is. Yet despite our traditions of cremation, skeletons rose from the creeks and bogs still. Skeletons far older than anything in living memory.”

“If what you’re saying is true…” Ned starts off, faltering, “Then what can any of us do about it?”

Bran takes a deep breath. He knows what he’s about to say isn’t going to go over well with his parents. 

“We need to start letting the wildlings through the Wall. Every person who dies north of it is fuel for the Night King’s army.”

“Through the-” Catelyn says, raising her voice. 

“And where do you suggest we put them?” Ned asks, focusing on the practical aspects of his son’s suggestion. He could only imagine the reaction he would get from the other lords if he followed through, much less the smallfolk or the members of the Watch themselves…

“Let them settle the Gift,” Sansa says suddenly, “As long as they promise to aid the Night’s Watch and obey the laws of the north. That’s what Jon said Stannis had offered them after the assault on Castle Black.”

“You expect wildings to accept such an offer? That they won’t just continue their raiding south of the Wall?” Is Robb’s only take on the situation. 

“They know what’s coming, they’re running,” Arya tells him, “If you’d ever seen the walkers, you would understand. You would do anything to put a decent distance between you and them.”

Sansa chews her lips before bringing up her next point. 

“I wish Jon had come back with us. He was the one who had dealt so long with the wildlings. He understood them, and they had come to respect him.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask-” Ned starts, cutting off Catelyn opening her mouth, likely to say something about Jon. “Does anyone have any idea how this happened? Why were you returned, and no one else?”

Lord Reed takes a deep breath. 

“Around the end of what everyone here calls the Long Night, some of my men reported a strange appearance over a lake. They didn’t really have words for what it looked like. Some called it a light or an opening of some kind. It didn’t appear solid, it didn’t cast a shadow or a reflection. And animals and birds that went near it disappeared. We had been discussing sending a party to investigate when this lot,” he gestures at Arya, Sansa and Bran, “Showed up.”

“We were led south by a vision from the Three-Eyed Raven.” Is how Sansa puts it. She looks pointedly at Bran. Arya does the same, though she grasps his (good) wrist in support. Neither her or Sansa really understand the Raven or what happened north of the wall, so this will have to be his story. 

He casts his eyes down towards the table. 

“The three-eyed Raven is another name for what they called the last greenseer.”

He tilts his head up just long enough to nod in Jojen’s direction. 

“He had visions like the ones you do, but his powers are far beyond. He was a man once, but he wasn’t anymore. He could see everything, present and past, along with his future sight. After I fell, I began to have visions of him leading me north of the wall. It was there in a cave where he lived, for lack of a better word, and where he tried to pass his knowledge on to me.Tried to give me his abilities, the skill to see the past and present as he did, and sometimes gave me visions of what was yet to come. Tried, fat lot of good it ended up doing.”

Jojen interrupts him, and Bran is secretly grateful.

“Do you think the group of you returning was something of his doing?”

That...was not something Bran had considered. But still…

“And- I hate to ask, but…” Jojen trails off, looking extremely bewildered. “Did...did I really explode after I died?”

Bran can hardly keep his laughter down. It seems so absurd, even though it was horrific at the time. 

“I hate to say it, but yes.” After a brief moment where he swears he hears Meera mutter ‘I TOLD you’ in Jojen’s direction, he changes the subject. 

“If this was the Raven’s doing, I have no idea. He hasn’t seen fit to showing me jackshit since we’ve been back. If it was him, then I think we’re on our own now.”

There’s a lull here, and Catelyn looks like she wants to chastise her son for his language but can’t find her words. Robb butts in before anything else can be said. 

“You keep talking about all these things that have happened, but…” his voice trails off, and he has to fight to find it again. “You haven’t said anything about any of us.”

Sansa feels her heart snap in two. The three of them had quarrelled a bit over this. She glances to meet Arya’s eye and sees her younger sister shake her head just the tiniest bit. 

She sighs deeply. 

“The problem is that our knowledge is our greatest weapon right now. The only other we have is Bran’s ability to see through the eyes of animals still-”

She hears a muttering. Skinchangers had been a huge part of the stories Old Nan had told them all, and had seemed no more real than the white walkers. 

“And if we show too much of our knowledge too early, it might end up making things more difficult. Things have already become to change because of us, and if we rely too much on what we know happened the first time, on how people behaved and reacted to things...It could spiral and we would be stuck and just as helpless as we were the first time.”

“We can give some general advice though,” Arya cuts in, looking straight at Robb. “First off, keep Theon close. He thinks of you as a brother, but part of him will turncoat in a second if he thinks it would win the approval of the other Greyjoys,” her voice quiets, “regardless of the fact that only his older sister gives half a fuck about him.”

“There’s a good man, deep down inside him,” Sansa adds, “But he’s got a lot of unresolved issues to deal with before it could possibly come out.”

Robb looks shocked, and Sansa feels the same painful unease that had consumed her earlier eat at her. 

Arya continues. 

“And you need to check on the Boltons. They’re still flaying people even though you outlawed it,” her nose twitches in disgust, “I can’t believe we’re going to have to deal with those fucks again.”

“Again?” Catelyn asks, sounding as though she’s finally found a grasp on her own voice. 

“Eight and a half years,” Lord Reed begins slowly, “A number of houses were wiped out, for better or worse.”

“Bolton,” Sansa starts off, “Mormont, Karstark.”

“Frey,” Arya adds, moving south, with an edge to her voice. There’s some things she’s come to regret about the life she had come to live before, but that particular act of revenge was not one of them. “Tyrell, Clegane.”

“More too,” Bran interjects before it can become a list. “Big ones, small ones. The dead did not discriminate.”

“Mormont,” Ned starts, trying to get a grasp on the situation, “I’ll have to write to the Lord Commander if I’m going to follow your suggestion about the wildlings. I’m going to have to do that knowing his house will cease to exist.”

Arya actually smiles, “The story of how Bear Island ended up being led, with shocking competency, by a ten year old girl.”

“Lyanna’s little more than a babe right now,” Bran comments. 

“And Jon spoke very well of the Lord Commander,” Sansa assures Ned, “He ended up with Longclaw after he saved the man’s life from a wight. He died not long after, but Jon still spoke well of him.”

“You let Jon go off to the wall,” Robb realizes, “You knew all of this, and you let him go off unprepared?”

“We gave him a massively truncated version of events, the night before he left. That’s why he left looking kind of like he’d been beaten about the head.” Arya admits. 

“We could have tried to convince him not to join the Watch,” Sansa adds, “But the man he becomes there is important, to important to possibly cast to the wind.”

She meets her father’s eye, carefully. She hopes the intent in her gaze is apparent. To his credit, Ned shrinks a little bit away from it.   
Catelyn finally manages to make herself say something that feels like it has substance. She’s spent this whole conversation feeling like she was in deep water far over her head and drowning as she tried to keep up. 

“It sounds like you’ve all been through so much,” she says, tears being held back evident in her voice, “How are all of us just supposed to continue on, with us still expecting you to be the children you were?”

“It’s hard for us too,” Bran tells her, “When I fell last time, when I woke up...you and Father were both gone. I never saw either of you again. Then Robb left and I never saw him again either.”

“And it’s not like we’re all gone,” Arya adds, “We’re still the children we to you were before, though some of us are farther away than others.”

She had felt that before, when she had returned to Winterfell. Hardly anyone there had recognized her and she wondered if had even really been her home. But then she had seen Sansa and Jon, and that had changed. Meeting Gendry again had changed it more. He had helped drag Arya Stark back to herself, and even now, with her young body returned, she knew who she would always be.

“And some of us have more growing left to do than others,” Sansa adds, teasing, in her younger siblings direction.

“Don’t sell yourself short Sansa,” Bran reminds her, “You could look most grown men straight in the eye. That probably went leaps and bounds to forcing them to respect you.”

“You said something about there be two other people who returned with you,” Ned asks. Unlike his wife, he still feels as though this discussion is forcing him under water. He looks at each of his youngest faces in turn. Sansa suddenly the picture of womanly poise, not just girlish delight. Arya, so confident and composed, though no less fierce than ever. And Bran...who spoke of such other-worldly, and seems to have become both wise and yet so regretful. 

“Two more,” he continues, “Who are they? And are they coming to join us as well.”

“Ser Davos Seaworth, one of Stannis Baratheon’s men, a former smuggler,” Arya says, rushing a bit, seeming to want to cut her siblings off before they can answer, “And my husband, a blacksmith named Gendry. Bran’s sight, or whatever you want to call it, says they’re both leaving King’s Landing and coming north by boat.”

Arya feels her face burn as she says the words. She has absolutely no shame in it, but she knows exactly how her admission will come off to her family, who only knew her as the rash, wild little she-wolf she had been. 

Ned manages to not react, even though it looks like he wants to. Catelyn only lets out a small cough, delicately covering her mouth and hiding her expression. It’s Robb who can’t restrain his bark of laughter. Arya scowls in his direction. 

In an attempt to take the focus off her younger sister, Sansa clears her throat suddenly.

“It’s getting a bit late in the day,” she begins. 

It is, Ned notes. The sun through the windows is already beginning to come down in the sky. They’ve spent a good part of the afternoon in the Great Hall. 

“And perhaps we should help our guests settle in,” she completes, nodding her head at Catelyn. “There is so much more to tell, but we have time other than right now.”

Sansa watches Catelyn smile at her as she stands, takes her hand and says, “Come, we’ll show you in” to the others as they lead them out of the Great Hall. Sansa hopes with all her heart that she has made her mother proud of her. 

Ned sits still at the table, his head in his hands. Bran, Arya and Robb remain at his side. 

Bran feels Summer stir beside him, and says, 

“Robb, could you take Summer outside?” he tells his brother. 

Robb does as he asked, though he looks over his shoulder the entire way out.

Ned speaks a few words for his younger children once Robb leaves. 

“Given the amount of work this has dropped on my lap, I feel I should thank you for making me clear the afternoon.”

Now that it’s just the three of them, Arya feels her eyes sting with tears, and she can’t fight the impulse to hug her father tightly. After a moment, Bran leans over as best he can and follows suit. 

“We’re sorry, but it’s been so long.”

Ned reaches out and ruffles Arya’s hair. 

“Despite your words, I still can’t see you as a woman grown, a woman wed at that.”

“At least you’re not laughing,” Arya says, making a face, “everyone else seemed to want to.”

It makes Ned terribly sad, to think that Arya expected her entire family to laugh at her for doing something so mundane as getting married. He knows his daughter well enough to know she would have never done such a thing if she had not wanted to, had not truly loved the man. It was a reality looming every time the possibility of politically motivated betrothals was brought up.

“I take it he’s a good man though? I do trust your judgement, though that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try and strike some solid fear into the boy.”

Arya smiles, softly. “I wanted to introduce you to him, before you had a chance to try and form an image of him. He has a story as long as ours, but it’s his to tell, so it will have to wait. “

“Speaking of a long story,” Ned changes the subject, and moves his attention to his pale-faced son, “Is there any specific reason our apparently mutual friend seems to want your head on a pike?”

Bran stiffens. He’d managed to avoid Howland Reed’s eyes during the conversation, but he still felt as though he could feel it burning the top of his head. 

“I broke his daughter’s heart,” he speaks plainly. Plainer than even Arya’s heard him tell the situation before. “Broke my own too, in the process. ”

He pauses, before confessing, “All three of us have done things we’re not proud of. For better or worse. I’d take it back if I could.“

“Sometimes just the things we’ve done to survive were awful,” is Arya’s take on it, “That’s part of the reason we’ve all been so eager to take advantage of this. It’s a second chance.”

“I don’t think I would judge you too harshly,” Ned says slowly, “but I do hope I set a good example for your sense of morality.”

He watches as both of his children go stiff and cold. He feels the same cold sensation take hold again in the back of his neck. 

“Father,” Arya’s words spill out suddenly, “Father, we know about Jon. All of it. And he does too, though we’re not sure if he really believed us.”

And there it goes. Ned goes numb all over. All he can ask is, 

“How?”

“One of the first visions I had with the Raven’s powers was of what happened at the Tower of Joy,” Bran tells him. It’s strange. They’re still dancing around the subject it seems, as though “Targaryen” was a dirty word, the same way Jon had always felt that “bastard” was. 

“We knew Howland Reed was there with you,” Arya throws in, “That’s one of the reasons we wanted to wait until they got here to tell anyone the whole story. We know that if he could back us up, on both fronts, than we would suddenly become a lot more credible.”

“We still weren’t sure if we would be believed.” Bran admits. 

“It’s not our story to tell,” Arya admits forcefully, “so we won’t. But Father, how could you have kept this from Mother?”

The guilt Ned has shoved deep down boils back up and over. He had wanted to tell his family the truth, so badly. He still saw the glint of anger in Catelyn’s eyes every time she watched Jon with the other boys. 

“It was all I could think to do, to keep everyone else’s suspicions away.”

Arya’s upper lip twitches, and there’s a hint of disdain in her expression. 

“Of course, no one would question a bastard. Even one born to a man who was supposedly so honorable. “

She shakes her head, violently. 

“I don’t think I can forgive Mother, not fully anyway, for the way she always treated Jon. But I do understand the anger of being confronted every day by proof that your husband was unfaithful. Especially when his straying is treated as normal whereas you would be crucified for the same actions.”

She fixes Ned with a look, the first look he has seen on Arya’s face that has frightened him a little.

“But she shouldn’t have taken it out on Jon. She should have been angry at you.”

Quietly, Bran’s next words break the beam of Arya’s anger. 

“Father, you should tell her. It’s not our story to tell anyone else, but you should tell Mother. She will probably be angry, but Jon’s gone already. She won’t accidentally reveal things. She’s a proper lady, and discretion is one of her strengths.”

He’s right, Ned knows, they’re both completely right and he just doesn’t want to hear it. What he’d told them earlier, about having wanted to have taught them right from wrong, still held. If he were someone else, he would judge himself just as harshly. And so, he shifts subjects again. 

“You told Jon all of this and he still left?”

“He was terribly confused, but he was Jon.” Arya says, “just like he’s always been.”

“We all hoped you would be proud of us, or at least understand what we had become, but Jon was different,” Bran tells him, beginning to smile. 

“Jon was exactly the man you would have hoped he’d become, regardless of his name.”

Ned can at least cling to that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Tyrion**

Tyrion Lannister knew he was clever. It was one of his only traits which he felt he could always depend on. Even his father and sister could begrudgingly admit he was quick and quick-witted. And only in the throes of truly heavy drink did he ever feel like his faculties had left him. 

The entire ride north had robbed him of this belief. A single letter, and a few whispered words had been the culprit.

The Stark bastard had seemed similarly struck dumb on the journey, but Tyrion had merely taken that by being faced with the realities of his decision to join the Night’s Watch. Tyrion had felt at one point to remind him that they weren’t even at the wall yet, he could still change his mind and turn around. 

Yet every time he spoke to the boy, memories of the things contained in Sansa’s letter returned to his mind and he was once again robbed of his wits. 

It’s not until they’re all camped a few days from the wall, that Tyrion finally manages to ask the boy,

“I was wondering if you’re sister…”

“Which one?” Jon replied. He was on his back staring up at the sky and didn’t seem to be paying much in the way of attention.

“Sansa, the older one. Has she...ever sustained some sort of violent blow to the head?”

“No, she was always the most careful of us.”

“Has she ever been prone to fits or spells or other sorts of madness? Does she ever eat strange wild mushrooms? Drink suspect liquor? ”

Jon rolls on one side to look at him .

“A few weeks ago I would have told you the only time Sansa ever lost her head was over songs or stories of romance. She was always conscientious and proper and never would have even thought of disobeying. But from the way you’re speaking of her, I’m guessing she sent us off telling you of some of the same madness my siblings laid on me.”

The same sort of madness?

“More than one your siblings spoke of this...madness?”

“And though it was, as you say, complete madness, they all seemed completely convinced. And as much as I wished that some of the things they told me were not the truth, I cannot dismiss them completely. ”

The smaller man is quiet for a time.

“Your sister told me something only two other people in the world besides me should know. She spoke a name to me I haven’t said aloud in more than a decade.”

He didn’t think Jamie or his father had either. Tywin had paid the matter no spare thought once it was done, and Jamie too did not mention it. Tyrion hoped it was due to shame.

“They told me things they should have had no ability to know. I guess that’s what convinced me to listen.”

“What are you going to do?”

Jon is silent.

“Go on ahead with things? Try and remember the important things they told me? Even the ones that are terrifying...It’s the only thing I think I can do. If you really want to know more, I guess you could try and ask them yourself. You’ll have to go past Winterfell on the way back down the Kingsroad anyway.”

Tyrion makes an excuse to step away from the young man after that. They had still been speaking so much in vagaries. He isn’t sure anything the other Stark children could have told the bastard could have shocked him to the core as much as what he’d been told. 

Before drifting off to sleep, Tyrion pulls out Sansa’s letter and re-reads it. 

She’s a good writer, and has managed to only hint at things which might make the note inflammatory if anyone else reads it. “The lioness tires of the stag, might make him a hart,” and the like. He would have likely dismissed it as the ravings of a bored maid with an overactive imagination, if it weren’t for the words she has whispered to him. 

“Your first wife’s name was Tysha,” was all she had said to him. 

He hadn’t said that name since nearly after it had happened. He had buried it. Jamie had done the same it seems. There was absolutely no reason Sansa Stark could have known that name. 

And he was going to find out how she did. 

**Gendry**

The week’s journey had not been an easy on Gendry. He did not have sealegs. And they didn’t seem to think growing on him was a good choice. 

He staggered and stumbled about the ship, trying to help out where he could. He could fetch and carry and he learned a few knots. It was enough that he didn’t feel like a freeloader. 

Davos tried to assure him that he didn’t expect him to be an experienced seaman, that if this was his only trip by boat, than that would be fine. 

They’re dropping anchor in White Harbor when Davos finds him heaving the last bit of his food over the railing. 

“Give it all back to the sea, boy, you’ll be on solid land again tomorrow. We have enough for a good meal before starting out.”

Gendry heaves, though this one is empty. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Might not stay down too long. Might just turn to nerves.”

Davos sighs, and slaps him on the shoulder. 

“Don’t go doubting yourself. I was there when you wed the girl. I don’t think she’d suddenly jilt you, especially after an experience like this.”

“It’s not that.” Gendry lets himself smile at the memory. Arya had dragged him to the Godswood, with only Davos and the Hound to speak, the latter man cursing all the way. Jon had been pulled away by the continually rising wights, and it hadn’t been a good time for a proper ceremony. 

Sansa had been rather upset, that she hadn’t gotten to be there. Every one else agreed that it hadn’t really been the time. That hadn’t stopped the two of them from basking in the glow as long as they could. 

The dead had been rising in the fields and hollows, but the two of them hadn’t felt so alive in a long time. 

“It’s not her I’m worrying about. It was easy enough, when the world was coming apart around us. But now things are normal, as normal as they’re ever going to be. She had tried to convince me once, when we were younger, that her family would accept me, but now I’m just not sure if I should believe her.”

Davos takes a seat atop a barrel sitting by the railing. It’s full of ale they were carrying to sell, and he feels he could use a cup. Ale, wine, spirits, they were all easy to haul and ship, and fetched a solid price wherever they were sold. Only problem was stopping your crew from attempting to skim off the top. 

“I can’t say I knew the she-wolf better than you do. But I met her sister, and her half-brother, and I know her father had a reputation for being honorable. If things were truly ordinary again, I would say you likely would encounter a number of setbacks, but it isn’t. Nothing for us will ever be normal again, not with what we know. And if the three of them told anyone else...than I would say your greatest worry is far from marrying a girl who was born above your station.”

Gendry has another niggling doubt. 

“You don’t think she’s...told anyone else about the, uhh... circumstances of my birth?”

Davos sighs, more deeply than before. 

“I don’t think Arya’s the type to put much stock in things like that, and truthfully, I’ve always thought the dead should stay dead.”

He glances at Gendry, his black hair longer than before just beginning to fall in his eyes. 

“But I highly suspect others will figure things out anyhow. Family resemblances being what they are.”

Gendry looks at him, and asks. 

“You got all your sons back when we returned. Don’t you ever get tired of having to deal with all the strays you picked up along the way?’

Davos laughs, deep and hearty. 

“One of these days, you may be blessed with sons and daughters of your own. Whether they’re your blood or not, they can never be cast aside.”

**Sansa**

Sansa yawns and stretches her arms as she stood. She had been in her father’s solar all morning. Ned and Catelyn had just left for the mid-day meal, leaving her briefly alone. She’s got papers strewn in front of her where she’s written down a mass of things they need to keep an eye on. 

Telling about Robert’s potentially forthcoming death had been an easy one. Being gored by a wild boar had been a very easy death for them to believe. 

“It even sounds like the sort of death that might appeal to Robert himself,” Ned had muttered. 

Telling them about Joffrey and his siblings had been awkward, but similarly simple. 

“They...they really don’t look anything like him at all,” Catelyn thinks aloud.

“And I saw the first bastard he sired before his marriage,” Ned trails off, clearly thinking that that had been before Robert had supposed to marry Lyanna, “she looked just like you would have thought.”

“It ended up having nothing to do with Jon Arryn’s death after all,” Sansa adds, “But it definitely had its role in yours. And I am pretty sure Cersei had a hand in Robert’s death, even if I’m not sure how. I should ask Bran later if he’d had any kind of insight into that.“

Catelyn makes a noise deep in her throat. 

“I once told someone that a woman ought to be able to lead as well as a man, but I cannot imagine a situation that ended with that woman on the Iron Throne.”

“There are other women who made their own bids into leadership,” Sansa tells her, though she doesn’t include herself in her list, “Yara Greyjoy might be the first trustworthy head of the Iron Islands in generations. But Cersei’s rule was based entirely on the deaths of all three of her children. I’m sure we can disrupt that.”

But eventually she has to push onto the one that’s been haunting her mind. She saved it until last. 

“Mother,” she starts, reaching out to touch her, “You cannot trust a single word that comes out of Petyr Baelish’s mouth.”

Catelyn’s face freezes, and she opens her mouth as though she wants to object, so Sansa doesn’t stop speaking. 

“I’m still not sure what exactly his end goal was,” that’s a bit of a lie but easy to run with, “but he has his fingers in so many pies right now that even if we had decided to go with Arya’s initial plan to sneak out and find a way to slit his throat-” there’s a big intake of breath from both Ned and Catelyn at that, “-then I would have absolutely no idea the fallout it would cause.”

She keeps going. It’s easier than stopping to breath or to give them a chance to respond. 

“The Lannisters didn’t have Jon Arryn killed for finding out about Cersei’s children. Baelish had Aunt Lysa poison him at his behest- I know she’s your sister, but she’s seriously lost her grip on reality. And I obviously can’t say for sure, but I’m almost completely sure he had a hand in your death too, Father.”

There had been angry words after that, and tears. Sansa was beyond overwhelmed and couldn’t even begin to think about how to handle it. She missed Tyrion, he had always been able to keep a grasp on situations like this. She missed Margaery Tyrell too, who always seemed to be to handle difficult situations with grace. Sansa pauses at that thought. She wonders if she should try and send one of the Tyrell’s a letter too, but she didn’t have a clear enough picture of their motivations in the overall map that was their lives to feel comfortable doing so. 

She feels a wet nose brush at her side, and turns to find Lady sitting at her feet. With a smile, she pets her on the head. 

“I’m sorry you’re too big to carry now, girl. But you can come with me to the meal.”

The wolf is now as large as a small sheep, but lean and quiet. She can slip down the hallways on dainty paws, and hardly make a sound. Sansa sticks close to her as she leaves Ned’s solar for the Great Hall. 

The meal is sitting on the table, but there’s hardly anyone sitting to eat it. Everyone seems to be keeping their own schedules as of late, and people wandered in and out on their own time. Ned and Catelyn appear to have gotten waylaid on their paths, as they’re not here yet. Arya’s here right now, munching on her bread and potato-and-leek soup. 

“Don’t run off, I’m going to need to borrow you after we eat.”

Arya raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t bolt. The old her would have in a second, especially if she knew what was coming. 

After Sansa eats, and as their parents enter to have their meal as well, Sansa and Arya leave and Sansa leads her back up to her chambers. Both Ned and Catelyn look as though there has been yelling between and now and before, and Sansa doesn’t wish to linger. 

“I almost feel like I should be frightened.” Arya admits when she shuts the door and Sansa pulls a wrapped up parcel from one of her trunks. 

She holds up the dress, there’s a ghost of the old Arya on her face. 

“You’ll need at least one good dress, and I’d like to make one that will work for you.”

“What are you thinking of?” Arya asks her with suspicion, though she does take the darted and pinned garment and pulls it over her head. 

Sansa touches the fabric. It’s soft wool, good for the coming winter, in a simple middling blue. 

“Long sleeves, but they stop at your wrists and don’t hang. The neckline is neutral, it shouldn’t choke you, but shouldn’t show any cleavage either.”

She tugs it where it fits over Arya’s chest. 

“I know you didn’t get exactly busty, but I can’t quite work out most of your other measurements, especially since I’m working from memory. You ended up about to my chin right?” Arya nods. “Not very big...at least I shouldn’t have to do more than let out a seam or two as you grow.”

Sansa’s going to make the skirt fit just above her hips, slender enough not to need any special smallclothes to drape properly. No excess, and loose enough she should be able to run away from anything that might chase her. 

Arya touches the fabric, which has enough loose over her chest to eventually accommodate her breasts. 

“Is it weird that I miss them?”

Sansa snorts. 

“I didn’t pay them any mind when they were growing on me, but now I miss them. I miss all sorts of strange things.”

Sansa removes the garment from over Arya’s head and folds it back neatly. 

“I miss when I could spend all my time sewing and none of it trying to puzzle out House politics so that we don’t all kill each other before the monsters over the wall come over and try again.”

Arya shrugs everything back into place as Sansa puts her things away. 

“You should come out to the yard with me. Meera’s helping me get good with my bow again.”

Sansa pauses, 

“I don’t know.”

She’s mentioned wanting to learn something to protect herself, but it’s daunting. She’s not Arya, anything more athletic than dancing has never been even something to consider adding to her skillset. 

“It’ll be fine Sansa. Besides, Meera’s been trying to teach Jojen too, and he’s really awful. Rickon joined us yesterday too, and we still haven’t managed to make it stick for him that you can’t just run up and stab the target with the arrow.”

Sansa’s nerves don’t disappear as they make their way down to the training yard. It’s empty in the afternoon, and Meera, Jojen and Rickon already have the equipment out. 

They do simmer down when they get there, and Jojen has somehow managed to get his thumbnail wedged into the wood of his bow. 

“Are you sure you’re related to me” Meera asks indignantly as she dislodges his hand his hand and files the nail down with the edge of her knife. 

“This is why I always left this to you,” Jojen tells her, pouting. 

Meera then takes off her own leather glove and trades Jojen for his finger guard.

After a moment, she offers it to Sansa, 

“We’ve only got the one, and I’ve got calluses already.”

“Keep it,” Arya tells her, reaching into her waist pocket and pulling out her own leather gloves, “I’ll give her one of mine, I shoot lefty anyway.”

Sansa pulls on the glove, it’s only a little tight. 

“Don’t grip the string too tightly,” Arya warns her, “You should bring your kid gloves next time, it will be easier on your fingers that way.”

The bow and arrows feel unnatural in her hands, but she manages to pull and release without dropping anything, and even though her arrow misses, it doesn’t fly off anywhere unexpected. Arya’s right, it does make her feel better. 

Soon the air is thick with flying arrows. Some of them go off into the ground, and others bury themselves in the straw men they’re using as targets. 

“Arya, don’t aim for the balls,” Meera criticizes, when Arya manages to land an arrow square between one’s legs, “That will only make them bleed.”

“Lot of blood coming through there,” Arya insists, “and it’s not usually armored.”

“If you’re aiming at someone in armor, the neck is more deadly, or the legs if you just want to do damage.”

Arya shrugs her off. 

Soon they run out of arrows, and Meera sends Rickon to gather all the fallen ones, which he does happily enough.

Soon, though Sansa’s arm begins to tire, the bow does begin to feel more natural, and the arrows begin to get closer to where she’s aiming. 

“It’s mostly practice,” Arya assures her as she nocks her last arrow. “It’s like with me and needle, you just to learn your eyes and the arrows. There are a lot fewer variables than if you’re going at someone with a knife or a sword.”

“Way too close contact for my taste,” Meera comments, “I want to put some distance between me and whatever I’m shooting at.”

“Not that I disagree-” Arya starts, “but I thought you favored a spear?”

“Spear gives your arm an extra long reach, they’re garbage in close quarters, and-”

Whatever she was going to say next is cut off when Sansa moves to loose her arrow. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Rickon, impatient as ever, move to start gathering the fallen arrows again. 

Sansa yells, and feels the arrow slip. 

Arya lunges forward and grabs Rickon, and the arrow falls to the ground barely three feet in front of her. 

Sansa can hear Arya loudly berating the younger boy, but can’t make out her words over the sound of her own heart pounding. Her head is swimming.

Rickon is red-faced and abashed, but all Sansa sees is the tall, curly haired young man he became. Him running, and then falling, full of arrows. 

Arya’s still yelling when Sansa hands Meera her bow and says, “I need to take a break.”

Meera reaches out to take her things, and gestures with a nod of her head over at one of the walkways. 

“Bran’s been sitting up there a while if you wanted to talk to him.”

Sansa glances up at one of the walkways where she looked. She cocks her head. 

“How’d you see him?”

Meera rolls her eyes, “I lived with him in a cave with hardly anyone else to talk to for over a year. I’m pretty sure I could find him in the middle of the woods blindfolded just from the sound of his snoring.”

“Do you...want me to tell him to go away?” Sansa asks carefully. 

Meera sighs, and rubs her eyes. The two of them are the only ones in the group who look at all close to their adult selves, and right now Meera looks even older than then. 

“No,” she replies quietly, “I just need time.”

Lady’s been sitting at the edge of the training yard watching them, and when Sansa approaches, she jumps up and trails behind her neatly. 

Bran nods at her when she climbs the walkway and sits, Lady squeezing between them. He reaches out idly to scratch her ears. 

“Bad thoughts?” He asks Sansa. 

She nods. Bran ducks his head in response. 

“I had some the other day when I saw Theon talking to Ser Rodrik. All I could see was him cutting his head off.”

Damn. 

“I guess our lives are going to generate a lot of those now.”

Bran turns his eyes down to Lady again.   
“Have you ever dreamt that you’re seeing through her eyes?”

Sansa’s alarmed. 

“Like you do?”

“Arya’s told me it happens to her with Nymeria too, and I know Rickon’s had them...I thought you would too, and you just didn’t have a chance before.”

It’s not something Sansa ever thought about. Bran’s right, her and Lady were cut apart too early before for a bond of that sort to form. 

She wonders what it would be like, to run through the woods with Lady’s eyes. To see the other animals as she does, to be able to slip past enemy lines nearly undetected. Lady’s already shown ability to be quieter and more stealthy than her littermates. It could be terribly useful. 

She doesn’t get a chance to ask Bran anything else, when there’s a sudden commotion from below. 

She has to help Bran get his crutches and stand, and by the time they get back down to the yard, the commotion has calmed a bit. Jojen’s rolled on his side, the shaking beginning to slow. Once he stills, Meera pulls the bite strap from his mouth and lifts his chin.

“Give him a minute, sometimes he comes out really confused.”

It doesn’t take long though for Jojen to start mumbling, and pulling himself up to sit. 

“I thought you said you hadn’t had a vision since all of us came back,” Meera asks him when he comes all the way to. 

“I wasn’t sure about this one, it’s been so long, I thought it might have been a regular dream.”

“You haven’t had a fit like that in ages, what was this one about?” Meera asks, trying not to sound too rough, but frightened. 

Jojen takes a deep breath. 

“I saw a group of crows, flying over the wall, when they fell from the sky. One of them managed to get away, injured. Another shed its feathers and flew over again, nothing but a skeleton.”

There’s a long quiet, as all of them think on Jojen’s words. And with the image of a bird rising as a wight, Bran suddenly has a familiar feeling creeping in his gut.


	7. Chapter 7

**Arya**

“It must be the two rangers that died by the wall.”

Sansa looks up from her plate of honeyed chicken at her sister. They hadn’t talked much after leaving the archery range. Arya had been oddly silent, and from her words, Sansa guesses she was trying to puzzle out Jojen’s vision.

Jojen had been tired and confused, so Meera had walked him back to the guest quarters to rest. The rest of the group had made their way to the hall for supper. 

“The ones that attacked Lord Commander Mormont?” Sansa asks her, wrinkling her brow and trying to remember. 

“The one that shed its feathers and became the wight...and the one that was just injured…that must have been Uncle Benjen.” Bran muses.

“I thought Jon had been at the wall a while when that happened?” Sansa had vague memories of Jon’s story, and was certain that it had happened close to when Father had been executed.

“Jojen’s visions sometimes come before things happen. And he used to go on and on about how they couldn’t be changed.” Bran explains. “It drove me mad.”

“So there’s nothing we can do?” Arya asks, feeling quite small and helpless, “Those two rangers still die, and Uncle Benjen still gets trapped over the wall?”

“I guess of all the things that could become set, at least this means Jon should still be able to save Lord Mormont and get Longclaw. That’s important in the grand scheme of things.”

“I hate this!” Arya snarls, her anger beginning to bubble over “I hate knowing that so many awful things will happen or are happening, and there isn’t anything we can do! Why were we even sent back here.”

She knows it’s not rational, and she knows she’s probably upsetting the others, who she knows aren’t any happier about the situation than her, but Arya can’t stop herself. She grabs a chunk of bread and a chicken leg and walks outside. 

It’s chilly outside, like there’s a summer snow coming, and Arya pulls her cloak more tightly around her. With a bite of bread, she angrily walks to one of the only spots in Winterfell where people might let her alone, the Godswood. 

She’s taken a seat on the ground below the weirwood when she hears a shifting above her and is startled. 

“Oh!” Meera says, from her perch upon one of the trees lower branches, “I didn’t think anyone else would come out here.”

Arya twists her neck to look up at her. 

“Neither did I,” she admits, taking a bite of her chicken. After a long moment she tells the other girl, 

“If you stay out here, you’ll miss supper.”

“That’s fine,” she replies, “lost my appetite. It’s been a long day.”

Arya leaves her be, and sits at the base of the tree eating the remains of her supper. After a few minutes, Meera slinks down the trunk and sits beside her. Arya offers her the remains of her bread, which she takes and chews slowly. 

“So what chased you out here?” she asks when she finishes, brushing the crumbs from her hands.

Arya takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly through her nose. 

“More mealtime rumination of everything we can’t ever change.”

Meera’s face looks like Arya imagines her own must. 

“It’s always like this whenever Jojen has one of his greendreams. He’s always been so completely defeated about them. I used to push back against him, try and convince him we could do something about it, and he would always shake his head. Used to always tell me ‘this is not the day I die,’” she spits out a bit of ash that’s stuck to the outside of the bread crust, “Until it was the day he did.”

“Why the fuck does he even have them then?” Arya wonders, gritting her teeth. “Why the fuck did we all even end up back here again?”

Meera kicks at the ground with one foot. “I don’t have any more patience in me for grand destinies. I lost that before. The last time I left home following some vision, all I got was everyone around me but Bran dying...and I think he might as well have died too.”

“Been surrounding myself with death as long as I can remember, and I’m sick of it” Arya muses, “The Faceless Men worship death as a god. I wanted to join them, I was so consumed by the desire for revenge, that I thought I could be like them. If I hadn’t left, hadn’t gotten away...I would have ended up like Bran did, a complete shell of my former self.”

“How did you stop it?”

“I was stabbed, bleeding and alone, and I got reminded of who I really was. I ran, all the way back to Winterfell, and to whatever remained of my family. Sometimes. It all tried to drag me back. I think it might have, if it weren’t for-”

Arya swallows roughly. She hadn’t really admitted this part, even to herself.

“You met Gendry, when we all came down into the Neck, didn’t you?”

Meera furrows her brow, thinking. 

“Big man, dark hair, doesn’t say much?”

Arya smiles fondly, 

“I think someone told him if you stay silent, you might be thought a fool, but if you open your mouth, they’ll be certain you are.”

She closes her eyes for a moment. 

“When I met him we were both children. Once he knew who I was, he wouldn’t let me forget who I was, always tripped himself up around me because I was a highborn lady. I had just seen my father executed, had my hair hacked off and was being forced to march leagues and sleep in the mud. Being reminded of who I was drove me absolutely batty, especially since I was never anyone’s idea of a proper lady.”

A deep slow sigh escapes from Arya. 

“When I returned to Winterfell, so very much had changed. So many people I knew were gone. I felt so out of place, even seeing Jon and Sansa again. And you can probably imagine what it was like seeing Bran again after what had happened to him.”

Meera manages a bitter laugh at that. 

“With all of that, it would have been so easy to let myself be eaten by the darkness I had spent too long courting. But then I found Gendry again, and we’d become...different. And again, he wouldn’t let me forget that I was Arya Stark.”

She fixes Meera with a solid gaze. Her words are finally forming neatly in her mind. 

“So much of the death I saw has now been undone. Regardless of destiny or whatever, we have a second chance here. Even when things are out of our hands, we shouldn’t waste it.”

That really is the meat of what Arya had come to the Godswood to remind herself of. It got away from her there for a minute. She changes the subject. 

“Besides, that whole journey did make me appreciate a few things.”

“What sort of things?” Meera asks her with a raised eyebrow. 

“Patience, education…” a long pause, “Baths.”

“Not having to wash everything in melted snow,” Meera adds. 

“Not wanting to burn your socks when you take them off.”

“Food that doesn’t grow creeping on the bark of trees.”

Food you don't have to kill yourself, or steal and shovel down"

They both laugh.

Meera’s looking at her out of the corner of her eye, considering her. 

“Bran did mention a few times that I reminded him a lot of you.”

Arya laughs gently. 

“Back in the old days, I wouldn’t have been sure that was a compliment.”

**Ned**

Ned finds himself waking quite early now. It’s been like this for a while. It seems like a nice enough day, so he decides not to fight the pull. He carefully stands from his bed, dresses is silence, and with a glance to the still sleeping Catelyn, exits to begin his day. 

He’s always enjoyed the cool air and rising light of Winterfell at dawn. The servants are scurrying about, beginning their duties, but hardly anyone else is awake, and it’s pleasantly quiet. 

At least until he hears the soft sounds of movement coming from the training yard. 

He finds his youngest daughter has clearly risen even before him. She’s dressed already, though she’s left her shoes off. 

She’s holding a small, light sword that he’s never seen, and moving in a clearly practiced, though a bit clumsy manner. 

The movements aren’t especially traditional, but he feels like he recognizes them all the same. 

She spots him at one point, and walks over, smiling. It’s another jarring change. A few moons ago, she might have skittered away like a rabbit, frightened of being caught.

“Where’d you get your hands on this?” He asks her, reaching out and touching the hilt of the little sword. 

“Jon had Mikken make it for me before he left for the Wall,” she admits, unusually openly. 

“It’s a fine little blade,” he lets the words breathe a bit, “I would also ask who taught you to wield it.”

Arya hoists herself up on a barrel to sit before telling him. He leans against the wooden railing beside her. 

“His name was Syrio Forel. He was once the First Sword of Braavos. You hired him to teach me when you caught me with Needle,”

Ned laughs to himself. That name is very Arya. 

“Back in King’s Landing. I think you thought I might lose it and poke Sansa full of holes otherwise.”

“I wouldn’t think I’d need to worry about that anymore, but your brother and sister seemed upset last night and there was no sign of you.”

Arya shakes her head. 

“That was something that upset all of us.”

There’s a lull, and Ned decides to take the topic back to Arya’s old teacher. 

“So he’s the one who taught you to fight.”

Arya smiles a sort of pained half-smile. 

“He taught me the Water Dance, life kicking me while I was down taught me to fight.”

Ned winces internally. She’s not wrong, you can only learn so much from formal lessons, of any kind. It’s the difference between a green soldier and one who’s spent years on the battlefield. But she shouldn’t have had to take those lessons.

“I still remember all the movements he taught me. My mind anyway, I have to practice so my muscles will remember too.” 

Good, Ned thinks. She’s clearly become more patient and disciplined than she was as a child, though in recent days Catelyn had shaken her head at what had become of the girl.

“Well don’t practice too much. It’s not good to strain yourself on an empty stomach,” he says, bidding her farewell, and leaving to break his fast in the Great Hall. 

When he reaches the hall, Sansa and Bran are already up, and whispering conspiratorially over their sausage and eggs. They look up quickly when Ned enters, though their faces then soften. 

“Is there something I need to be in on?” He asks them suspiciously. 

“It’s nothing like that,” Sansa assures him. 

“Davos and Gendry both should be arriving today,” Bran admits. 

Ned blinks. 

“I’ll tell the guards to keep an eye open, why were you trying to hide that?”

“I didn’t tell her when I saw them make camp less than a league from us last night,” Bran explains. 

“We were all pretty down last night, and we thought Arya could use a happy surprise for once,” Sansa adds. 

Ned smiles. If there has been one great, wonderful consequence of this whole mad experience, it was seeing his children truly united.

**Bran**

After finishing his eggs, Bran takes off in search of Maester Luwin. When he finds him outside the rookery he calls out to him.

Luwin shakes his head when she sees him stumble closer on his crutches. 

“I thought I told you to stay off your leg, it could make the break worse, or even make it break all over again.”

Bran brushes him off. It’s not to say he’s not worried about his words, but the possibility of rebreaking his leg seems such a trivial thing in the grand scheme. And he’s not staying in bed the entire time, that’s just not happening if he has any say in it. 

“Do you still want to meet them?” Luwin asks. Bran nods. 

‘Them’ is the newest mated pair of Luwin’s ravens. They are both tending their clutch of seven eggs when Luwin leads him into the rookery. Bran offers one an acorn, and so he is allowed to gently scratch each of them on their heads. 

As Luwin tells him all of the little quirks of raising and training them, Bran simply watches them. Watches each of their movements. The female likes to hop, and watches his hand closely to see if there might be anymore acorns coming her way. The male is friendlier, more prepared to sit on Bran’s hand. 

Warging is much easier with a bonded animal. 

Once their done, it’s mid-morning. He bumps into Arya outside, and takes the opportunity. 

“Have you seen Meera?”

“I think she was heading to the Godswood. If you find her, remind her she said she’d show me how to use her spear.”

Like Arya really needs another weapon, Bran thinks to himself. He makes a side stop on his way at the kitchen. It’s not yet time for the midday meal, so it’s easy enough to slip in amongst everyone working and steal two tarts. 

The godswood is really lovely in late summer. The summer snows have kept everything green, and the sunlight brings color to the plants and flowers that grow. Even the black pond looks inviting in the summer. 

Meera’s sitting beneath one of the trees when Bran finds her. He tries not to be hurt that when she sees him, she stands and pulls herself up onto the branch above her. 

“That was mean,” is all he says to her, sitting carefully at the base of the tree. He sets the other tart he’d brought next to him on a cloth. “It’s blackberry.”

The only response is silence, save for a soft rustling of leaves. Bran takes a bite of his own tart, brushing the crumbs off onto the grass. 

After a few minutes, he hears Meera softly ask. 

“Did Arya come looking for me?”

Bran nods, “No rush, she’ll end up distracted pretty soon.”

There’s another long bit of silence. 

“How long will you have to have the cast?”

“At least two more moons,” Bran admits, “and Maester Luwin says it will be longer if I don’t start staying off it more. But I can’t really resist.”

After a bit, and far more quietly, she asks. 

“Does it hurt?”

Bran takes a deep breath. 

“Not really, not anymore,” he touches his side gingerly, “My hip’s another story. No one really asked about it after Luwin popped it back, but it feels like...like it’s attached by a cord that got stretched so far it won’t snap back.”

There’s a long pause, and then the sound of Meera sliding down the trunk, silently. She sits far enough from him that he can’t look at her without craning his neck. She picks up the tart and takes a bite.

“I did that to my shoulder once. Pulled it straight out. Father popped it back in easily enough, but it took nearly half a year before it stopped feeling strange.”

Oh fun, he has that to look forward to.

They sit in a nearly companionable silence for a while, though Bran still feels pulled tight, as though he’s walking an invisible tightrope.

“Father’s leaving in a few days,” Meera says abruptly. 

Bran is surprised. Howland has spent most of his days with Ned and Catelyn, trying to give them aid in ways the children cannot. 

“He says he doesn’t want to leave Mother by herself for too long. He asked Jojen and I if we wished to return with him.”

“Do you?” Bran asks, trying not to sound desperate, and likely failing. 

Meera bites her lip. 

“I don’t know. Am I really needed here?”

“Needed and wanted aren’t the same thing,” Bran blurts out. Meera’s quiet in response, and though he can’t see her face, he can feel her go still. 

“I’m sorry, so sorry for what happened before. I know I hurt you, I know that…” he tries to wrap his tongue around his words. 

“I know it wasn’t you, it was the raven.”

Bran shakes his head, almost violently. 

“I don’t want to do that, some of the blame at least sits on me. I wanted him to show me his powers, I wanted to fly. Though I really wouldn’t call that flying. Coming back myself after everything- I can’t believe no one else went off on me for it.”

He still can’t believe Sansa didn’t slap him for that comment he made about her wedding night.

“All I know is, seeing you again, when we’ve got this second chance...I never want to be anyone but Brandon Stark again.”

He hears her make a sound, deep in her throat, almost like a chuckle. 

“Wouldn’t let me forget who I was.”

“What?” he says, suddenly not understanding. 

“Nothing,” she says. 

Bran glances up at the sky. 

“We should go, the others should get here by mid-day.”

“Alright.”

He struggles a bit to stand, and she reaches out to steady his good hand while gets his grip on the left-sided crutch. It’s the first time she’s touched him since before, and he quickly feels his face burn. 

Meera laughs. It’s the best thing he’s ever heard. The raven was wrong, this was what flying really felt like.

“You’re blushing.”

“Give me a break, my voice hasn’t even dropped yet.”

**Catelyn**

They had all eaten the mid-day meal of stewed rabbit together for once. After they finish, Sansa asks Catelyn if she would come and watch all of them practice their archery. 

She agrees, happy to see them all together. Ned had commented on it several times, it was very nice to see her younger children working as one. Robb’s absence is the only thing missing. Bran can’t practice yet, with his wrist still splinted, but he sits on the side, seemingly content. He’s seemed in good spirits while eating earlier, which pleases her.

It’s still so incredibly strange, seeing Sansa with a bow in her hand. It’s not unheard of for a woman to shoot a bow, but it’s not common. Of all the martial activities Sansa could have expressed interest in, it’s possibly the only that could be viewed as at all ladylike. But there’s a darkness in her eyes when she talks about wanting to defend herself that Catelyn hates violently. 

The Reed girl assures Sansa that she’s improving, and she glows with pride when she finally manages to bury an arrow in the target. 

Catelyn’s interactions with all three of the Reeds has challenged her childhood old prejudices against the crannogmen. All three of them had been nothing but polite and courteous in their time at Winterfell. 

She had been off-put by Jojen’s discussions of his visions, but watching him with the other children made him feel less unnerving. He was somehow worse with the bow than Sansa, but seemed entirely unperturbed by it.

The old Catelyn might have fretted over Meera’s influence on Arya. The older girl was as boyish and rough as her daughter had always been. Lord Reed had spoken so proudly of his daughter’s skill though, and Cat had begun to wonder if maybe Arya would thrived somewhere where the things she enjoyed were valued. The new Catelyn could recognize Meera’s better temper and ease when teaching the others. 

She bites back the words in her throat watching both her daughters shoot. She bites back ‘unladylike’ and ‘unbecoming’. And most of all, she bites back ‘dangerous’. Her girls have clearly known enough of dangerous.

It’s not been too long when Ned enters behind her. 

“We’ve got visitors to greet, everyone.

The others nod, and put away their equipment. They all seem to understand, only Arya seeming a bit confused. Sansa had told Catelyn of their intent to let the others arrival be a surprise to her. 

When they arrive in the courtyard outside the north gate, both of the men, well, man and boy, have dismounted and are handing the horses off to one of the stable boys. 

One of them is an older man with a beard, whom Ned steps forward to shake the hand of. He introduces himself as Ser Davos, of house Seaworth. The other is younger, maybe sixteen with thick black hair and a strong build.

The others file in behind her, murmuring, then Sansa steps to one side, so Arya can get a clear look. She does, and she freezes.

It’s so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. Then Arya takes off at a run. The dark haired boy had time enough to drop to a knee and reach out just as she flings herself at him and wraps her arms around his neck. 

Gendry, Catelyn thought, reaching into her memory. Arya had said his name was Gendry. She would be lying if she claimed she had not spent any time wondering what type of man would willingly marry Arya, and would be accepted by her in turn. It had caused a murmur of amusement among most of the others. 

When Gendry scoops her up with one arm and touches her face, runs a hand through her hair, there is no laughter. 

He kisses her once, on the lips. It’s innocent, chaste even. 

But then Arya squeaks, turns a color resembling a very ripe rutabaga, hops down from Gendry’s arms and runs off. The stables are close to the courtyard where they are, and Arya scampers to the closest one, stops suddenly, and plunks her face into one of the horse troughs. 

Catelyn can only hope it was recently filled.

When she returns to the group, soaking wet, there is a smarting of soft giggles coming from most of them. Except Gendry. 

He’s doubled over laughing hysterically. 

Arya makes a face, and kicks him softly before taking his hand, her face and neck now only a tiny bit pink. 

And suddenly Catelyn smiles, feeling like she understands. 

Then she turns slightly, to look at Ned. 

Who’s staring at them as though he’s seen a ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing a bit with Sansa and Jojen next chapter, and if anyone has an ideas for any other unusual character pair ups, feed me all the ideas!


	8. Chapter 8

**Gendry**

Winterfell was not as he had remembered it. By the time he had made it before the long night, the castle had been sacked and burned and reclaimed. It was the dead of winter, and all of the structures had been at least dusted with snow, many of them buried in it. 

It is much cooler in the north than Gendry would have been used to in summer, but the sun is shining brightly. The forests are green, and everything is in the peak of life. When they reach the gate and are eventually let in, there are people all through the place, going about their work. 

Completely unaware of the winter that would come to pass.

Gendry’s stomach is in knots still, but the sight of Winterfell as it had been in its prime had eased it. It had even made him happy. 

But it had paled to the joy that had erupted through him laying eyes on Arya again. When she had run at him, full speed as if she were a galloping stallion, his soul had sung out. 

(Seven hells, she hadn’t been this little when they met before had she? He’s pretty sure he could never lift her with just one arm).

Even her outburst had overjoyed him. It was so very Arya that it made him double over as he had times before when they were young. He tries to imagine what she would have done had the kiss occurred while they were on the road to Harrenhall and his laughter only increases.

He’s still alight when the group was being led to another part of the Keep when he realizes Lord Stark is staring at him. 

It doesn’t make him uncomfortable, not really. There isn’t any malice in his stare. It’s not like when angry patrons stare at him. There’s a similar lilt to his eye to the one that had been there that day so long ago when he came to see him in the streets of Flea Bottom. 

Well, Davos had warned him about family resemblances. They would just have to deal with that when it came up. 

He takes the time to get a look at the group that had greeted him. Sansa looks much as he remembers, a bit shorter with a softer face perhaps. She smiles brightly upon seeing him, brighter than he’d ever seen her smile before. 

It takes him a moment to recognize Bran, who is even more shockingly small than Arya had been. The fact that he is standing, albeit supported by a heavy iron crutch, is also a surprise. But it is the interest, the animation, on his face that look Gendry most by surprise. 

“Has your brother…” he whispers to Arya, who’s walking by his side, grasping one hand tightly, “is he normal again?”

“As normal as any of us ever were.”

Lady Stark is lovely, Gendry thinks. Immaculate and graceful, no wonder Arya often felt such an inferior specimen of femininity around her. He hadn’t exactly met a ton of fine ladies in his life, but he imagines they must all wish to be as Lady Stark. 

(He remembers once, while wrapped around Arya in a post-coital glow, he’d kissed her on the head and called her beautiful. The laugh she had let out had nearly been a bark. “That’s how I know you must have it bad for me, you’ve gone completely blind’)

Robb too, is just the image that Arya had described to him all those years ago. Handsome and confident, Gendry would almost be intimidated if every time he looked at him, Robb hadn’t looked like he wanted to laugh. 

There’s other faces too, ones he doesn’t have names for, but it trying to place. 

“Quit staring at everyone, stupid, or they’ll think you dull,” Arya whispers at him hastily from his side. 

Supper that night is a venison stew, richer than nearly anything Gendry’s ever eaten. Even when he’d come north before, rations were being stretched. He supposes northerners must need the food to keep warm. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to be the only one wolfing it down. 

He’s seated sandwiched between Sansa and Arya, with Davos having joined Lord and Lady Stark. Only Robb seems to be holding back on the food. 

“Wherever you lot came from, you must have all starved. This bunch has been gorging themselves since the all turned up.”

Arya laughs, and prods him with an elbow. 

“This one here wouldn’t even eat worms when we were sleeping in the dirt.”

“And if I ever get fat, I’d rather do it before winter comes,” Sansa says. 

Robb watches them all somewhat warily, Gendry notes. He remembers the stories that made their way across Westeros, of what had happened at the Red Wedding, and with a pang, almost hopes they’ve told him nothing of his fate. 

After the meal, Davos and him are lead to the guest chambers and told to take it easy, that any information they wish to share could wait until the morning. Gendry doesn’t really have anything to put away, so he just sits awkwardly on the end of the bed, and takes his surroundings in. When he’d been in Winterfell before, it had been full to the gills. There were people stuck everywhere, packed as tight as fish in a barrel. Now he seems surrounded on all sides by empty space. 

He would be lying to say it wasn’t a nice change after King’s Landing and the ship. 

He’s barely had a moment to contemplate sleep, before his door opens and Arya slips inside. 

“Came by to say goodnight,” she tells him, sitting down on the end of his bed, “and to make sure no one shook you down while you were out of my sight.”

The tension that rises in his gut is alayed when he notices she’s left the door wide open. 

He glances around at the open room, before scooting closer beside her. 

“This all feels like too much.”

Arya laughs and shakes her head. 

“It’s still summer, there’s lots of space. People don’t start coming into town to stay until the snow starts to fall heavily.”

She rests her head on his shoulder, and they just sit like that awhile. 

“Sorry about the outburst earlier, Apparently this body is a little more willful than I remembered.”

Gendry chuckles.

“At least after that we’re unlikely to be accused of behaving improperly. Besides,” he reaches out to poke her on the cheek, “It might be nice to do things slowly this time around.”

“I suppose,” she responds, then asks him quietly, “Have you been sleeping poorly too?”

He nods.

Arya sighs deeply. 

“All of us have, I’ve been sleeping with Sansa half the time. Some of the other nights, Lady takes pity on me. Summer won’t leave Bran’s side. But the nightmares still come.”

She stands on that note. 

“You should try and sleep though. I can’t imagine tomorrow’s going to be fun. At least Davos is here now, he’s always been good at being the adult in the room.”

She walks to the door, sticking her head back in for one last comment. 

“And you should have someone bring you a tub to take a bath before tomorrow. The shock might wear off by then, and you might find yourself getting prodded like a horse for auction. I imagine you’ll be getting bombarded with questions about your father as well. Might as well prepare.”

And with that, Gendry is alone again.

**Davos**

Davos had had his fill of serving kings. What had become of Stannis still felt like a betrayal, and he has no desire to pledge his genuine fealty to another. But speaking to Lord Stark, he begins to understand how the North commanded such from it’s people. 

They have just been discussing, all of them, Lord Stark’s next steps in attempt to warn the Night’s Watch and protect the free folk. 

“I’ve drafted the letters dozens of times, but I can’t seem to stop myself from sounding like a madman.”

“You should send letters to your bannermen to keep an eye out for ones who have already fled over the wall. Send instructions to capture them rather then execute, and have them brought here for questioning. Rumors, even the idea of them, can be very powerful, and if you gather more than a few of their stories, it will be easier to persuade the Lord Commander.”

Sansa nods at him approvingly. 

“We should also begin preparing for winter. We’ve got about five years before it begins officially.”

“And since we’re not going to let the Bolton’s take over, the harvests and stockpiles should be able to go by uninterrupted.”

Ned nods. Davos briefly wonders what they’re planning to deal with the Boltons, but that will wait for another conversation. 

“I managed to bring several crates of dragon glass to White Harbor. It’s being delivered with a shipment of other goods marked for Winterfell, within a week. I can help send for more to be ordered from Dragonstone. No one thinks anything of it as a material now, the costs will be negligible”

He reaches out and claps Gendry on the shoulder. 

“This one helped equip our entire army when the walkers came before.”

“Will we need to send for others to work the material?” Catelyn asks, sizing Gendry up. He should be fully grown, but a life in Flea Bottom does not lend itself to good health, and though he is big for his age, he does look a bit weedy.

“You can work dragonglass without a forge,” Meera cuts in, “It takes more time, but arrow and spearheads can be made by chipping and scraping it against itself. I’ve made a spearhead of it before, I can help him if you don’t want to send for anyone else.”

“That might be a good task to ask of any of the wildlings who choose to settle peacefully,” Sansa comments, “Especially since most of them won’t be used to farming. We will come to arm the whole North that way.”

Catelyn has another question to ask of him.

“You say you serve Stannis. Do you believe you choosing to aid us may conflict with your loyalties?”

Davos takes a deep breath.

“Any of the duties required of House Seaworth can be handled by my older sons. And if history chooses to go the same route, then I would not be able to continue to serve him in good conscience.” 

Ned raises an eyebrow. 

“If the accusations against Cersei take any hold, Stannis would be the rightful next in line to the Iron Throne.”

Arya makes a noise as though she might be sick. Davos notes her gripping Gendry’s hand rather tightly underneath the table. 

“Then we won’t let them take hold. No man who can convinced to burn his own daughter alive should be allowed to be king of anything.”

**Ned**

Arya’s words cut Ned deeply. Truly, he had never been fond of Stannis, but he respected him, and if Arya speaks truth, then he cannot argue with her conclusion.

“Lets not worry about that now, “ Sansa interrupts. 

“True. When I left Dragonstone there was no sign of Melisandre, despite Stannis’s interest in the mystical.’

“Good,” Arya mutters. 

“Though we should remember that Stannis was the only Lord who sent aid to the Night’s Watch when they asked. We may end up having to rely on that.”

The conversation continues, moving to fortifications, and trenches, and the little bits they knew of the wildlings (or the Free Folk, as Davos insists on calling them). Ned manages to follow mostly, but finds himself getting distracted.

He’d seen it the instant Arya had run to the boy. The Baratheon look was distinctive, and dominant. And he had always known Arya looked so much like his sister, even having her wolf spirit besides. 

He wonders if they know. 

When the talk completes, most of the group stand to leave. Ned holds back and motions for Davos to stay with him. 

He stands and reaches to shake his hand again. 

“It’s good to make your acquaintance, Ser Davos. I’m pleased that my children may have had someone like you to guide them, if I could not be.”

Davos shakes his hand firmly, but dismisses his praise. 

“It is I who is grateful to have been able to serve your sons and daughters. I saw your elder daughter come into her own, I saw Jon Snow rise from the gutters of his birth. I even had the honor of speaking for Arya at her wedding.”

Ned smiles, a bit of humor back in his face. 

“It wasn’t at swordpoint was it?”

“I assure you Lord Stark, any swords at the ceremony were your daughter’s own. If things hadn’t gone to shit after the war, she would have been remembered as a hero.”

It saddens Ned, that Arya hasn’t felt right to speak of these things, but it doesn’t exactly surprise him. While his daughter had spoken in her youth of wanting to command armies, to be lord of the holdfast, none of it ever seemed as though she desired glory. He hopes it’s that and not that she feels unworthy of it. 

There’s another something poking at the edge of his mind. 

“The boy introduced himself as a Waters. Does he know who he is?”

He doesn’t have to explain himself. Davos served Stannis for years, knew Robert and Renly, knew of the formers proclivities and the look all three of them shared. 

“He does. Arya does as well.”

Ned shuts his eyes and rubs his temple. This would please Robert, even if in such a perverse manner. Catelyn had spent years fretting over Arya’s resemblance to Lyanna, both in looks and spirit. Ned knew that it had caused him to favor her a bit. But seeing her with the boy has dragged back all the fear that it had caused him as well. 

“I wouldn’t give it too much thought. Neither of them hold King Robert in very high regards. And she told me once that Gendry didn’t seem to bristle at the bastard thing quite as much as he did when they were younger. Seems Jon gave him some hope that it didn’t have to mean as much as people had always made of it.”

Jon. It seems so many of the children’s stories come back to him. 

This is still weighing on him when he leaves. He finds the boy- Gendry, he really should start calling him by name. He’s at the forge, helping Mikken finish something up. That’s going to be a problem. Too many around Winterfell are already beginning to talk, and there are some who may be in the need to know. For his credit, Mikken seems happy enough for the extra set of hands.

He bids Mikken greeting, then takes Gendry aside out the door. 

“Anything you needed milord?” he asks him, eyes still downcast. It’s the same look many have, many like him. Smallfolk who feel like they have no place, or no consideration for their place. They become broken. 

Ned touches the bottom of his chin. The resemblance really is uncanny. 

“Not really the attitude I would expect from a man who claims to have tamed my wild daughter.”

There’s a spark in his eye after that comment. 

“There was no taming involved. I like her as is.”

He had been trying to needle him a bit, true. He cannot see even years from now, a future where Arya would fall in love with someone who wanted to change her. And while they haven’t been especially demonstrative of it (yesterday’s incident notwithstanding), Ned’s eyes and the words of others have assured him that Arya must in fact, love him. 

“How on earth did you even meet her?”

“Little less than a year from now, after you were executed, we both ended up on the road being dragged to join the Night’s Watch. She was disguised as a boy, and I stepped in when a couple of bigger boys tried to pick a fight with her. Guess that’s why she trusted me so quickly, she didn’t really trust anyone for a while. Knowing she loved me was great, but I think that part was more important”

“You knew her that long ago?”

Gendry appears nearly lost in thought. 

“We were separated for a while there in the middle, but I found my way here eventually.”

“Here?”

“Arya asked me to come with her once, when we were young. She claimed I could be her family. I tried to tell her that there was no way her mother or brothers would even let us still be friends, that I was a bastard as well as a commoner. We were both a little right.”

Gendry pauses, thinking, and chuckles to himself. Ned finds himself thinking he was wrong. Despite the face, there is steel in his eyes. 

“Guess she got her way in the end, being that I married her. Afraid that means you’re stuck with me.”

He then swans off and returns to his work. 

_Trusted me...that part was more important. _

Gendry’s words linger behind in his head. They linger all through the evening meal. He watches the younger children, and Ser Davos as well, memories in his head of their stories of Jon. And then he looks at his wife, and Gendry saying the word ‘trust’ echoes through. 

When everyone else moves to leave, Ned grabs Catelyn by the arm, a little more roughly than intended. She looks at him questioningly, only a little alarmed.

“Retire early with me, I have something I need to discuss with you.”

With a quick good night to the children, Catelyn agrees, and follows him. 

Of course he does, Ned thinks bitterly, she trusts him. 

By the end of the night, that may no longer be true. 

**Jojen**

Jojen isn’t quite sure what to feel the morning his father leaves. He helps him pack the horse, and watches with the others, unsure of what to think 

Howland Reed had spent most of the last evening with his son and daughter, holding Jojen back when Meera retires for the night. 

“You can come back with me if you wish. I understand that you might not want to be involved.”

“How can I not be involved knowing what’s supposed to happen?”

Jojen feels the guilt eat at him. He’s useless as a fighter, and now he’s even robbed of much of the utility of his greensight. 

“You can help me keep hold of the Neck. We are the last line of the North’s defenses, and there may be secrets in the swamps that we didn’t discover in the last life, secrets which might be of aid.” 

Jojen breathes deeply, closing his eyes before responding. 

“Thank you for the offer, but as much as I feel like I’m in over my head, I feel like I have to stay here. I’m so used to knowing what’s to come, that if I’m not here, I feel like I might as well be blind.”

His father hugs him tightly after, ruffles his hair and tells him, 

“Listen to your sister, and stay close to her. I don’t think she could handle losing you again. I don’t think I could either.”

He watches the next morning as Lord Reed kisses his daughter on the head, and whispers something to her that makes her shake her head and laugh. She’s been in a better mood lately, and for that Jojen is glad.   
And then the gate opens, the drawbridge is lowered, and he is gone. 

Jojen stands still, staring after, until he’s interrupted by Sansa touching him on the shoulder. She hands him a bundle wrapped in cloth. Arya, Meera and Gendry have left to get a head start on the dragonglass and Bran has headed to the rookery, so for now, it’s just the two of them.

“You seemed to like it at breakfast, figured I’d bring you some in case you wanted it later.”

The bundle is a lump of yellow, rather strong, cheese. There had been cut wedges of it that morning, with the eggs and porridge, and Jojen had eaten three.

“Thank you,” he says, brightening, and takes a bite.

“Have you eaten it before? Maester Luwin taught us people in the Neck don’t eat much dairy.”

Jojen shakes his head. 

“We can’t keep goats or cows, or even sheep in the swamps, they get sick. And milk products spoil too quickly for the boatmen to trade for. I’ve never eaten much of it until the last few weeks.”

Sansa pulls herself up to sit beside him on the rail he’s resting on. 

“At least there’s a good thing or two about having to leave your home.”

He has to nod to that. 

She gives him a minute before starting to speak. 

“I know how awful it is to feel helpless. I felt that way most of my adolescence back before.”  
Jojen nods at that. He’s seen the glint in her eye when she holds her bow. 

“But if there’s anything we can do to try and make you feel safer or more at home here, you should tell us.”

Before he can thank her, they’re interrupted by Arya coming back to the courtyard. 

“Have either of you seen Mother this morning?”

Jojen and Sansa both shake their heads. Lord Stark had seemed a bit stiff at breakfast, but his wife had been nowhere to be seen. 

“I went back to get something from my trunk, and I went past her and Father’s chambers. I think I heard her crying.”

Jojen watches as Sansa goes stiff and pays him only a nod in farewell, and the two leave. With a sudden thought, he goes to the rookery to find Bran. When he tells him where his sister’s have gone, the other boy grabs his crutches and heads off in that direction, as though he knows exactly what has happened. 

“Did you have a vision of this or something?” Jojen asks him. 

“No,” Bran tells him grimly, “But my sister’s and I have been badgering Father to tell Mother about Jon. He may finally have.”

And so Bran limps off, leaving Jojen behind. After a moment, he decides to find his way to the forge. Might as well try to be useful.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another mixed POV this time. Since this chapter marks the point at which I have to do something I hate (aka, splitting the party), I think I'm going to end up switching to location based POVs.

The next six turns of the moon at Winterfell are tumultuous. 

Ned and Catelyn barely speak to each other, except when completely necessary. All of their children step around them on tiptoes, not wanting to upset them further. 

Sansa and Arya both go to their mother often. Sometimes they work, but often they just sit with her. Catelyn had been so shocked the first time that Arya had asked if she could brush her hair that she had been momentarily brought back to normality. 

“And then you just pin them on top,” Arya tells her when she finishes rolling up the braids on top of her head. 

“You really wear it like this?” Catelyn asks her dubiously. 

Arya shrugs, 

“I sometimes wore it like this in Braavos. It guarantees that it will stay out of the way.”

“Braavos, that was-”

Arya stops to think. Howland Reed had been right when he’d said that timekeeping hadn’t exactly been a priority for them. 

“Fifteen or sixteen. I was there for nearly two years.”

She hasn’t said a word to anyone, about what she had learned there. She would rather shut it back in the past.

Catelyn pins the last braid, pats Arya on the neck and says, “done.”

Arya’s quiet for a while, before finally sticking her toe in the shallow end by saying, 

“I know you’re mad at Father now. But I really think you should have been mad at him earlier.”

Catelyn stares straight ahead. 

“Men have needs, but most of them don’t bring their bastards home with them.”

“Are you kidding? If Gendry did that to me, I’d kick him out on his arse and keep the babe just to spite him. “

That nearly makes Catelyn chuckle, but Arya’s face is deeply cross.

“‘Men have needs’, that’s just an excuse so they can do whatever they want and we can’t say a word against them. Can you imagine what would happen if you had done that? Made him raise a child that wasn’t his and wouldn’t tell him where it came from.”

Arya’s voice quiets to a whisper. 

“But Jon had no say in any of this.”

Sansa at one point, while the two of them are working on letters to send to some of the other Northern houses, suggests she could write to Jon. 

“I spent a lot of time when I was hiding in the Vale, thinking about the way I treated Jon as a child. Despite it all, when I finally made it out of hell and to Castle Black, he embraced me with a smile all the same. I’m sure he could come to forgive you if you try.”

Catelyn doesn’t respond to that. She doesn’t believe it. She knows that she couldn’t have forgiven someone who treated her like that. She doesn’t feel like she deserves it. She doesn’t tell either of her daughters how hard she had prayed to be able to love Jon as her own, and the shame she had felt when she couldn’t keep her promise.

It hits Sansa at some point, that much of Catelyn’s anger isn’t so much over the lying to her for years, it was that Ned’s lies had allowed her to treat Jon the way she had without reprimand. When she’d pled with her father to tell earlier, Ned had explained that he felt if Catelyn had treated the boy well, it would have brought far more attention than the already unusual situation had. It would have been especially bad, he explained, if Jon had managed to come out looking Targaryen. It’s a weak excuse, Sansa knows, but it holds up, she guesses.

Ned busies himself keeping up with the others. He becomes an expert at changing the subject when people try and talk to him. 

He watches as Meera teaches Arya to use her spear. The older girl moves as though the spear is just an extension of her arm, and though Arya is untrained, she has a grace to her movements that she wouldn’t have before. 

“They work well when you’re retreating, because you can keep your distance while attacking. You can throw it too, but don’t risk it unless you can risk losing it.”

Don’t leave yourself unarmed because you threw it, she thinks to herself, no matter how great it was to see one of those things explode.

Sansa’s getting better and better with the bow. Once Bran finally gets his wrist splint off, he comments that she might even be better than him.

“Of course I am, “ she tells him, sounding artificially haughty, “I’ve always been good at my lessons.”

“The archer who trained me did say he preferred teaching girls, because we don’t go in expecting to already know everything, “ Meera comments. She casts an eye across the yard to Arya, who’s trying to shoot blindfolded. They are all, obviously, giving her a wide berth. 

“Though I imagine there are always exceptions.”

Sansa spends much of her time inside though, with the adults. She’s always been tall for her age, and she holds herself with such grace now that it’s hard for everyone to remember that she’s supposed to only be thirteen.

Her and Ned finish off the letters to the other Northern houses. When Ned expresses doubt at sending them by raven, Davos volunteers to deliver them himself.

“I think it would do good for me to learn more of the north, I got a trial by fire last time.”

“You’ll need to be careful,” Sansa tells him, the idea of him leaving again tugging at her heart. “Our bannermen don’t know you.”

“Don’t fret too much over me,” Davos reassures her, “As I told another girl recently, I was a smuggler for a long time. I can get myself out of binds.”

It’s a few days after he leaves that they get the first letter from Storm’s End, in Shireen’s neat but childlike script. Davos would have been so pleased, Sansa thinks, to never have to tell Shireen he couldn’t read. 

When Ned tucks the letter away, he asks Sansa, 

“She was the one-”

Sansa nods silently. She never met Shireen, but she remembers Davos’s rage. She remembers how Arya had shook her head hearing about it, how Gendry had hidden his face in his hands. She wonders if Gendry would have thought of the girl as a cousin. None of them miss Melisandre, and Sansa had completely agreed with Arya’s assessment. They would never let Stannis stay king after that. 

“Have we decided to go forward with our plans for the Boltons?”

Ned nods. They’d decided the best way to deal with their treachery would be to have someone ride a day or two behind Davos, and slip inside and find information. Someone who might not be immediately recognized as one of Stark’s men.

“You won’t like what happened.”

Sansa looks at him questioningly. Then, with horror, it dawns on her.

“Theon?” 

“He volunteered.”

He volunteered, Sansa thinks, why on earth would he do that?

She corners him after supper that night, and demands an explanation. To Theon’s credit, he does looked surprised by her onslaught. Sansa doesn’t quite remember if she’s spoken to him alone before this, before. 

“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” she implores, “The stories that have been coming out of the Dreadfort…”

“I’m not afraid of Roose Bolton, or his bastard,” he insists.

“Well you should be!” Sansa yells, pausing to take a breath. 

“I’m sure Robb’s let slip some of the reasons that it seems we’ve all lost our heads,” she says quietly, her face downcast. 

“Yes, he keeps going on about some malarky that you’ve all seen the future.”

Sansa grits her teeth and stares him in the eye. 

“The Bolton’s bastard broke you before,” she starts, “He tortured you, gelded you, made you forget your own name.”

She reaches out to touch him on the shoulder. 

“You survived though, remember that.”

Theon grabs her hand, and it’s almost tender until he lets his voice go high and puckers his lips before smacking them on her cheek. 

“Why Sansa, I didn’t you cared so much.”

Making a face, she reaches up and pinches his nose between her fingers. 

“Things like this, Theon, is the reason we keep pelting you with rocks.”

She walks off, and imagines the confused look on his face must be him thinking, that was you all?

It still leaves her deeply unsettled. She is happy when Arya quietly slips into bed beside her that night. Sandwiched between her and Lady, Sansa can pretend it will all be okay. 

Theon rides away the next morning, and Sansa tries to put it out of her mind. 

Nearly two moons in, Sansa has her first wolf dream.

It’s one of the only nights that Lady doesn’t sleep inside. She’s inside the godswood, running. The dry late-summer grass pricks underneath her paws as she pursues her goal. She slips out into the courtyard, on her soft-padded feet, nearly silent. She cannot get across the moat, not without being seen, but she can climb, to one of the empty guard towers, letting her see over the outer wall into the rest of the North. 

Sansa-in-Lady catches sight of where the small party including Tyrion has camped outside Winter Town. Were she not inside, Sansa might feel her heart twinge. They don’t stop, don’t come inside. She has no opportunity to try to talk to him again. 

She wakes up the next morning with dried tears on her cheeks. She’s not sure who they’re for. And for that day, she has a hard time keeping the bad thoughts away. 

When the thoughts take hold, she retreats to her preferred coping mechanism. Crying didn’t do anything, it never had, and prayer no longer brings her any peace. So for now, it’s sewing. She’s nearly finished Arya’s gown, and when she tries it on, it looks almost right.

“Be a bit until you can wear it, but it looks good right?” she asks. 

Arya nods. Then she twitches, transferring her weight from one foot to the other, restlessly. 

Sansa smiles indulgently, 

“You can go.”

And Arya scampers off to leave Sansa to touch up the embroidery and move on to her other projects. She mends everything, adding growth stripes to her own gowns. She takes in several cast off pairs of Jon’s breeches for Arya, so they might actually fit her right. 

She sews pockets into the waistbands of her skirts and the insides of her petticoats. While her lessons in archery have been somewhat fruitful, she knows they won’t make a difference against a human monster. She stitches them to fit daggers.

She offers to make a dress like Arya’s for Meera too, but the other girl goes wide-eyed, and turns out to be nearly as bad at standing still as Arya is. 

“I haven’t worn a nice dress in ages,” she comments when Sansa takes her measurements. 

“How come?” Sansa wonders.

Meera shrugs, 

“Mud that sticks to you like pitch, there are spots in the water where you can sink without noticing. Plants that spew spores in all colors. We wear our boots to our knees, and tuck in the fabric to keep the bugs out. Anything nice would get wrecked, the only women who wear gowns there are the ones who can stay inside pretty much all day. And textiles are one of the things we always have to trade for, we can't really produce much except skins, so you want to make sure anything nice lasts.”

“That’s sad,” Sansa comments, “Even if you don’t like wearing them, it makes me think that you don’t have occasion to wear anything special.”

“Weddings mostly,” Meera admits. 

Sansa remembers, dimly, having been taught that House Reed was one of the poorest in Westeros. That the crannogmen were an insular group who mostly kept to themselves. Jojen’s taken to stealing his way into all of Bran’s lessons that Maester Luwin still tries to give him. He tells them that the don’t have a maester at Greywater Watch at all. 

“How?” Arya asks him, “I thought maesters went where they were assigned.”

Jojen shrugs, “I guess the citadel forgets about us. They wouldn’t be the only ones.”

All of them are sitting outside the rookery. Bran had wanted to try and describe to them what he had been planning to do with the new clutch of ravens. 

“The ravens we use to carry messages work the way they do because they can always find their home. Which means that they can pretty much only fly to one location. I’m trying to train this group to fly in the cardinal directions when prompted. Then if we need to, I can warg and guide them.”

He points to the strings he has tied to each of the bird’s feet, each in a different color, and when he ran out, in two contrasting colors. 

“These are because I still haven’t quite learned how to tell them all apart when I’m not in them yet.”

“You should try keeping some other birds too,” Jojen suggests, “Ravens are the smartest of the bunch, but doves and pigeons can carry messages too. And ravens are really easy to see to shoot down. No one expects the others.”

That’s a good idea, Bran thinks. Especially since he’s begun to become protective of the clutch already. Seven chicks. That’s all four of his siblings, and Jon and him. And Theon too, he supposes. 

“If this works,” Arya suggests, “You could even send them over the wall, use them as spies.”

“That’s one thing I was thinking,” Bran responds, feeding the mother a bit of corn. The babies are all still learning to fly, and she’s not quite ready to let go. 

“The other is that if I can guide them, then we could get messages to people who aren’t at keeps. I could down one of them in the middle of the road if we really need to.”

Arya especially appreciates the force behind Bran’s efforts. She remembers months upon the open road with no way to get word to anyone that she was alive. And the only way to get news was word of mouth, which was never exactly accurate. 

Gendry still tends to keep to himself. He’s tight-lipped, and for the most part, no one seems to bother him. Even the servants, usually so curious, seem to treat him rather like a piece of furniture. Sansa’s awfully grateful for that. It’s been hard enough keeping things quiet enough that the servants don’t feel the need to question too much. She has a feeling some of Varys’s little birds in the north may have already picked up something amiss.

After five moons, Arya finally convinces Gendry to take a brief break from the weapons making and spar with her and Robb. 

“He can’t help taking it easy on me, you might actually give him a challenge.”

Soon, over the clinks and clangs of sword practice, Arya finds herself shaking her head. 

“All these years, and you still can’t stand side-face right? Gods, no wonder you picked up that damn hammer. “

“I don’t have to take this, other people here will talk to me,” he counters, only half accusingly, before taking off, probably back to the shed behind the forge where him and Meera have been stashing the dragonglass heads in progress.

After a moment, Arya realizes that his exit has left her and Robb alone. She feels briefly uncomfortable. Sansa’s words all those moons ago come back to her. 

“So…” he starts off, and Arya feels her heart jump up into her throat. “How did it happen?”

“What?” she asks, suddenly confused.

“The blow to the head he took. Or was it a high fever? Whatever misfortune it was that convinced him to marry you.”

Arya feels her stomach sink. She hugs herself tightly. 

“Why does everyone seem to think this is so funny? I know I’m not exactly a great beauty, but I didn’t think I was hideous.”

Robb’s face suddenly freezes, and Arya wonders suddenly if he was joking. Either way, it seems he realizes he’s hurt her feelings.

“I didn’t mean- It’s just, you always-”

“Always said I never wanted to marry some old Lord twice my age who cared for nothing but my name? I didn’t.”

“You’ve always been, well-”

Arya laughs, harshly. 

“I was a child Robb. I know I was disobedient and rash, and I can’t say that’s entirely changed, but…” she trails off. “I didn’t think that meant people thought I was horrible to be around.”

Robb reaches out and scoops her into a hug. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know anything about what happened to you two, and I shouldn’t have laughed.”

She hugs him back, suddenly feeling ashamed that she’s been avoiding him. He may not understand, but he’s always so hard to be a good brother, a good son, and someday a good lord. 

“I’m sorry, “ she says into his shoulder, “I didn’t mean to jump down your throat. I think this rift between Mother and Father is just really bothering me,”

Robb is silent in response, but Arya knows he agrees. Despite knowing how their marriage began, all of the Stark children had always been very secure in the knowledge of their parents love for each other. To see them not speaking after a fight, even whole moons later, was really messing with all of their heads. It had been seeming to settle down a bit; earlier in the week Catelyn had even stopped to question Arya about marrying a blacksmith. Arya had been expecting it for so long that she’d already had a rebuttal prepared. 

“He’s good to me,” she assures Robb, “He always has been, even when I didn’t deserve it. “

She claps Robb on the back once, 

“And so if you feel the need to ask him any more invasive questions, think long and hard about whether or not you want to hear the answer.”

She hears Robb laugh, and for the first time in far too long, Arya hugs her brother.

“I should go find where he ran off to,” she says, after a bit, “Maester Luwin asked for his help later today.”

“What for?”

“Oh! You didn’t hear? Bran’s getting his cast off today.”

Not a minute too soon, in Bran’s opinion. In the past weeks, his leg has begun to itch worse than anything else in his entire life, but no one will let him scratch. Luwin, especially, chides him, comparing it to scratching at a scab, ending with it being pulled off too soon, reopening the wound. 

Also, no one told him the cast would be removed outside the forge, using a saw. 

“You’ve done this before right? You’re definitely not going to miss and cut my leg off?”

Maester Luwin shushes him as Gendry hands him the saw and helps to hold the end of Bran’s foot when he begins to cut. He was grateful to whichever maester it was in history who had developed the building plaster. Forcing the boy to stay bed bound and immobile while his leg healed would have been absolutely impossible. 

Summer nudges at his good leg as Bran cringes, feeling the pressure as the saw breaks through the layers and they crumble away. He pets the wolf, grateful for his presence. 

He is less grateful for the crowd that forms; all of his siblings as well as Jojen and Meera seem to have seen fit to watch. Even Rickon is sitting still. He wishes they weren’t here, them seeing this gives him the same feeling as them watching him have to be carried.

(Except Meera, she used to pull off his boots and make sure his toes hadn’t frozen and fallen off without him realizing, so he doubts this is strange at all for her.)

With a loud crack, the cast finally gives way and Bran feels the air hit his left leg for the first time in moons. He also cringes, realizing that the gauze underneath smells like it’s sunk to the bottom of a lake. 

His leg is pale as death and stings with the pinch of baby skin, the parts that aren’t dotted and marked with rough scar tissue. Maester Luwin runs his fingers over the bone, palpating carefully.

“The bone callus is still there, so it’s probably still got a bit of healing to do,” he says carefully, “so no running or stressing it.” he gestures at Gendry, “You should have the smith make you a cane to use instead of the crutches now.”

Bran’s so damn happy he can’t even think to much about not being able to run. He’s just glad for his two feet. Gendry finds him a poker to use while he works on the cane. He uses it to balance and pulls himself to his feet. 

Meera furrows her eyebrows watching. 

“You’re crooked,” she says, pointing. “Your left foot hangs.”

Bran notices. It’s not just the foot not touching the ground, it feels like it’s rotated slightly outward. He pulls off his other boot just to make sure. Luwin tuts, poking and measuring. 

“This was always a risk. It could be the muscles pulled from disuse, it could be the ligaments in your hip. Or the break could have just happened when your bone was ready to grow and it hasn’t caught up to the other side.”

The older man sighs deeply. 

“I fear you may be limping for many years Bran.”

It’s something new, to be sure, but he can’t even sum up the energy to be upset by it. Sometimes he thinks he sees Mother or Robb looking at him pityingly when he walks with the wrought iron cane Gendry fashions for him, and he just shakes his head. 

It’s at nearly exactly six moons that Theon returns to Winterfell. 

The young man is shaken, deeply. Even plied with tea and stew, it takes him time to speak. He eventually does, telling of exactly what the children had told him to expect. Several men within the Dreadfort, thieves mostly, he thinks, strung up for days with the skin flayed from various parts of their body. Stories from the servants of men being fed to dogs. And quieter whisperings of what Roose’s bastard liked to get up to in his spare time. He’d discovered this disguised as a guard, blending in with a very (so they all think) un-Theon like ease. 

Despite his fear, when Ned asks if he will ride with him and the other men, to confront the Boltons, Theon immediately says yes. 

The others are proud, and Robb tells him before they leave, that he had said if he didn’t personally get to see the men held responsible, then the images would never leave his mind. 

Winterfell feels empty without Ned, but there is no time for worrying. A few days after the men leave, a raven comes from King’s Landing. Both Sansa and Catelyn had been secretly expecting it to come for a while, but had hoped it wouldn’t. 

“He won’t be able to refuse again.” Catelyn admits, emotional at the thought despite the previous moons.

Sansa nods. She understands this. Robert having let him refuse before had likely been only an extension of their years long friendship. And she is certainly not letting him go alone. 

Sansa had thought she had set foot in King’s Landing for the last time, but apparently the Gods had decided to challenge her. 

Later that night, Jojen has another vision. It’s of a gated homestead of splintery wood, sitting atop a hill. Against a snowing sky, it burns. It burns to ashes as several women stand outside the gate, watching. There’s a pair of smaller figures with him, the size of children perhaps. They don’t appear human though, even standing shrouded in the shadows of the haunted forest. They all watch as the building burns. 

He wakes, unsure of what is happening, or may happen soon.


	10. Chapter 10

**At Winterfell**

The two moons that turn waiting at Winterfell for Ned to return are hot. Perhaps not hot for King’s Landing, but far hotter than most of Winterfell’s residents were used to.

“It’s like the city is trying to reach out and drag me back itself,” Sansa complains, pulling at her neckline and fanning herself. In these rare hot days of summer, she comes to understands very well how silk became so popular. 

Work has grinded to a halt. No one has the energy to do much. Of the children, only Gendry is thick-headed enough to try and keep his work up during the day. 

Arya dutifully waits outside the forge, with a bucket of water to douse him with every time he shows his face. 

“You’re going to catch your death in there,” she tells him when he elects to work through the mid-day meal. “Finish up and come follow us into the Godswood.”

“I have work to do.”

“Gendry, it’s more than four years until winter begins. The white walkers aren’t going to climb over the wall quite yet, and when they finally do, we won’t be better off if you keel over from heat sickness.”

And with a sigh, he finally agrees and follows her to the Godswood. Summer and Lady are lapping at the water in one of the pools, trying to regulate the heat they are unused to, and not made to withstand. The others are crowded under the trees in the meager shade they offer. Sansa is explaining to Jojen and Meera that the pools here are fed by the hot springs, and henceforth, too warm to swim in comfortably that day. When Arya and Gendry approach, Meera has removed one of her shoes and is gingerly testing Sansa's words. After a moment, she pulls it back out, cringing.

“So, what are the lot of you up to today, if not work?” Gendry inquires, flopping on his back in the grass. 

“We’re trying to figure out if the rest of us are going to be able to keep up once Sansa leaves,” Bran admits. 

Sansa shakes her head. It’s half false-modesty, half hiding the fact that part of her is still perplexed whenever they look to her to lead them. 

“It’s true,” Arya tells her, stretching her legs out in front of her. The grass in this spot has begun to go golden instead of green, it’s been hot for too many days. If it doesn’t begin to cool or rain soon, it may become a fire risk. 

“You were the one who’s actually ruled Winterfell before. You were the one who has dealt with all our bannermen and getting them to stop squabbling enough to deal with the facts at hand.”

“You have Mother, and Robb too. Robb is heir to Winterfell still, he’s been being groomed for this his entire life. “

But Robb doesn’t know, despite their stories, quite what is coming. And deep down, they all have questions about how his judgement went before. 

“Also, you were the one who was in King’s Landing and the Vale and Winterfell the whole time, even with the horrors, you did get to see and hear quite a lot of what happened.” Bran mentions, “Most of the rest of us spent those years sleeping in the dirt, no idea what was going on.”

Yes, she was a fine spectator to that horrid game.

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do when we get there. I won’t be Joffrey’s betrothed again, I’ll just be the Hand’s daughter. I’m not even sure I could practice with my bow much without attracting attention.”

She had spent her days before in lessons, and sewing, and mooning over Joffrey to such a degree that she wants to vomit in its memory. After Ned’s death, she’s sure she spent her days doing something, but she remembers nothing but terror. 

“Learn to play cards, or cyvasse, or a musical instrument of some kind” Gendry suggest, “Women in inns and taverns do that, they can’t always be in sewing groups.”

“And if you show a little interest, Septa Mordane will probably give you lots of books on all the things we were supposed to learn,” Arya tells her. “She always seemed sad that neither of us were very interested in history.”

“High Valarian could be useful too, “ Jojen suggests. He has taken well to learning the language and has taken to pestering Maester Luwin for extra lessons. 

High Valarian just makes her think of Daenerys, and Sansa has tried to block the woman from her mind. Though always on the horizon, her life is completely out of their hands. Thoughts of her final days were bad enough.

These are all good suggestions, Sansa thinks, but still. Her stomach twists at the thought of having to spend her days dodging Joffrey’s cruelty with their futures hanging in the distance. The best she can probably hope for will be to escape his notice all together. 

After a light supper of nothing that has to be cooked, the outside air finally begins to cool. 

When everyone is clearing from the Great Hall, Sansa taps Arya on her shoulder. 

“Want to go riding before it gets completely dark?”

Arya nods. When they leave the Great Hall, it’s still quite light, the summer still dragging on long. Unfortunately it means that it’s still humid, despite the small drop in temperature. 

There’s just one stable girl left sweeping up, who nods when Arya moves to get the saddles and reins on. 

“You can go on in Amma, I’ll put everything up when we’re done.”

The girl nods. Of course, Arya knows her name. She knows almost all the names of the servants in Winterfell’s employ, even the ones Sansa would have never spoken to before. She was Arya Underfoot, and the years had not changed that.

Eventually, Sansa pulls herself unsteadily onto the stout, gray, mare Arya had pulled out for her. 

“You don’t like riding,” Arya says, frowning, while mounting her own horse, “why’d you want to go out?” 

Sansa shifts her weight in the saddle, trying to get comfortable. 

“I want to get better. I don’t want to ride in the wheelhouse all the way to King’s Landing this time. I want to be able to see the land as we pass through. Even if I end up with my thighs black and blue at the end of the day. I thought this would be a good enough time as any to start.”

Arya leads them, and they leave the stables. They can’t go into the wolfwood- it’s too close to night, and dangerous- but they can walk through the courtyards, and the training yard, and back around the glass gardens, without troubling anyone. And Sansa feels it’s easy enough practice.

“It’s not just you. Meera and Jojen are both still uncomfortable riding at faster than a trot and Gendry...Gendry rides a horse slightly less well than another horse might.”

Sansa laughs softly.

Arya purses her lips before talking again. 

“I am going to miss you. Not just having someone to look to for guidance, but I am actually going to miss you. “

“For once, I will genuinely be just a raven away.”

She doesn’t want to admit how frightened she is. How alone she is going to feel. King’s Landing was a viper’s nest before, at best. 

“I almost feel like I should go with you, like we did before.”

Sansa’s stomach tightens in a knot.

“No. Not again. You’re needed here. Whether or not you’re good at the diplomacy, and the other things I am, you’re needed. You and Gendry and Davos all fought the others, and you needed here on the line, helping to prepare. Far more than I am.”

They ride the rest of the way in silence. By the time they finish, the sun is completely gone, only a thin line of dark red-yellow remaining on the horizon. When they’re dismounting, and Arya is untacking the horses, Sansa asks her, 

“Do you ever feel like some things in our lives are just preordained?”

Arya wrinkles her nose, 

“What, like, they’re going to happen no matter what we do?”

Sansa nods. 

“I saw Bran fall the other day. He hit a rock and his leg twisted under him, and he didn’t react fast enough. He hit the ground and cursed so loudly I saw one of the younger serving girls run off to find Maester Luwin. He kept saying something about the gods seeming to want him to stay helpless.”

“Fuck that,” is Arya’s take, “It’s not the gods who keep bringing you to King’s Landing, it’s fucking King Robert. The only thing that controls things in our lives is us, and if things seem to keep happening the same way, it’s because we’re still the same people making the same choices. Fuck destiny.”

She puts the saddles and blankets away and drags over water for the horses, before her and Sansa move to leave. 

She reaches out and claps Sansa on the arm, squeezing her wrist tightly. 

“And think about this. You didn’t make it to King’s Landing with Lady last time. Will you let anything happen to her this time?”

“No!” Sansa nearly yells. Her wolf is full grown now, quiet and often unseen. She will not become a victim of the Lannisters anymore than her own lady intends to.”

That is it. She will not be a victim this time. Bad things may happen to her, but she will go to them with a clear head. And with her wolf by her side. 

When they’re walking back to the castle, a wolf howls from off in the woods somewhere. Arya smiles softly. 

“That’s probably Nymeria.”

Sansa purses her lips, 

“Doesn’t it make you sad that she’s basically wild again?”

Arya’s voice is a bit sad when she responds. 

“I only had her for a little while. She ran wild and made her own pack. I can respect that. And she could have run off to the Riverlands with neither a bye or a leave, but she hasn’t. She’s stayed close.”

And with that, Arya nods, and heads off to bed.

Later, crawling under her covers and feeling terribly alone, Arya wonders if Sansa had ever managed that. To find anyone else who she considered pack. She’s considered Gendry that very quickly, and even Hot Pie to some extent, but she realizes she has no idea if Sansa came to view anyone that way. She hopes she did.

The next morning, on their way to breakfast, Arya and Sansa both encounter Bran, Meera and Summer heading out towards the stables with a tray of applecakes. This doesn’t surprise them, they’ve taken to occasionally eating breakfast with Willas, but Bran stops and grabs Sansa by the arm. 

“Father executed both Ramsey and Roose Bolton this morning.”

Sansa’s head is suddenly swimming. 

“How- are you sure-”

“I warged into one of the ravens they brought with them. We should be receiving a message in a day or two, but I thought you would want to know right away.”

Sansa’s head swims until they sit down at the table. When they do, she just puts her head into her hands and laughs.

There’s another raven that comes that day, from the Last Hearth. Even Sansa's bitterness at her memory of what they had done to Rickon and Osha couldn't distract her now. The last of the bannermen that Davos had needed to ride for, and the one that proved fruitful. His visit had coincided with the capturing a wildling woman fleeing the wall with her two young daughters. The Umbers live so close to the Wall, that they were well used to wildling raiding parties, but Davos writes that there had been no thefts and the three had been clearly running, not attacking. It still took some convincing to allow him to escort them back, instead of just executing them. 

Davos writes, 

_I told them to listen to their story before we left. And if they captured any more, to see if they told the same. I gave them your edict too, that any who attacked or harmed people unprovoked could still be held to the law, but anyone who cooperated or surrendered should be sent towards Winterfell under guard for interrogation. _

“That might be a tough sell,” Arya muses. “Us down here have basically been taught that the wildlings are boogeymen and up north most would rather die than trust a crow.”

“I suppose all we can do is hope that word will get around that their reports of...the wights, are being taken seriously,” Catelyn says, mouth still fumbling around her words. 

They are important words, terribly. But Sansa can’t really discipline her mind this morning. 

Her own boogeyman is dead. 

True to Bran’s word, the raven from the Dreadfort comes a few days later. 

She can barely stand to read Ned’s own telling of what he had found there. All of what Theon had told them had proved true, but there had been more. Among it, evidence and testimonials that Ramsey had poisoned Domeric, his own half brother and Roose’s heir. 

When questioned alone, Ned wrote, nearly the entire household had been willing to testify to the horrific crimes that had occurred. Despite this, he was forced to stay for more weeks, both to root out loyalists and collaborators, and to deal with what to do with the remains of the household, and to decide what to do with the Dreadfort itself.

_I think leaving it vacant is prudent for now, he writes. Both as a testament to the crimes committed here, and in case it becomes necessary as a fort or shelter in the years to come. _

After the Boltons fall, the weather finally begins to cool off. 

Davos returns to Winterfell before Ned does, bringing with him the three wildling prisoners. The woman’s name is Karsi, and her daughters are Johnna and Willa. Karsi herself is fierce and defiant in personality, but neither of the girls are older than ten, and seem more curious than anything.

When they come, Davos leads them tied with ropes. Catelyn and Robb are nominally in charge, but Sansa and the others are the ones who ask them most of the questions. 

“Why did you come south?”

The three of them tell a story of their village being attacked, and though they killed the attackers, they wouldn’t stay down, so eventually, those who remained, splintered and ran.

“The people who attacked you, what did they look like?”

Karsi shakes her head, in seeming disbelief, but Johnna is the one who speaks. 

“Weren’t people. Least not anymore.”

“Their skin was like ice,” Willa adds, “And their eyes were bright blue.”

“Just wights then,” Arya says, “You can burn them. Have to burn the dead bodies too, or you just get new ones.”

If Karsi expected that to be the response they got here, her face says the opposite. 

“Did you have any other plans once you got over the Wall?” Robb asks them. 

Karsi shakes her head. 

“We just were trying to put as much space between us and those things as we could. “

“It’s enough for now,” Bran interrupts, “They won’t be able to get over the wall for a long time.”

Karsi’s face twitches, 

“How’d you figure that?”

“Point being, “ Robb cuts in, “If you are willing to help us if it comes to it, and agree to obey our laws, you may stay here in the service of Winterfell.”

“And if we refuse?”

“You will be kept here as prisoners. You would still serve, but in chains. You could try and flee of course, but be assured, no one further south than this will have a single ounce of belief in the stories you tell. Most of Westeros still believes the others are fairy stories meant to frighten children.”

Willa, the younger girl, whispers as if a mouse, “I’m tired of walking.” Her older sister wraps an arm around her. 

Meera eyes them, 

“Either of you old enough to carry your own spear yet?”

“I am, but I have no spear,” Johnna tells her. “Willa’s too little still.”

“She won’t be for too long,” Meera says grimly, “Once you’re settled we should get them into both of your hands.”

When Catelyn gets up to help get them settled in, Robb asks them. 

“What made you agree?”

Karsi looks him up and down. 

“The man who brought us here called us Free Folk. Didn’t know southerners ever used that term. And you didn't seem overly concerned as to whether we would bend the knee.”

She spares her children a look, Arya is untying their ropes, and subtly checking them for hidden weapons. 

“My ancestors would curse me for it, but I want my daughters safe more than I give half a fuck about the opinions of the dead.”

The three of them have mostly settled in by the time Ned has returned. They are guarded for several days in case they try to attack or run. Some of the servants question, but the three of them are good workers, so it mostly works out. 

When Ned returns home, they give him a night to rest before they spring the King’s letter on him. He sighs deeply. 

“I suppose you have all talked this through already?”

Sansa nods. 

“And don’t try and fight me on going with you, we’ve already decided it’s for the best,” Even though inside she still wants to cry and never ever leave Winterfell. 

Ned sighs again. 

The day before they are set to leave, Sansa is finishing packing, with Lady watching her. 

“Nothing will happen to you,” she assures the wolf, “You’re big enough to fight them now, any way.”

“Got anymore room in there?”

Sansa turns to find her siblings, and Gendry, standing in her doorway. Her heart swells.

Arya steps forward, and hands her a bow, and quiver full of arrows. 

“Meera and I have been working on it for a few weeks. It’s nice and small, so you can carry it on horseback. Can’t go getting soft again just because you’re going among fancy southerners.”

Gendry hands her something as well. It’s a dagger, made of dragonglass. 

“It was the first one we finished, just in case.”

He hands her another one, just made of regular steel this time. 

“For the more human monsters.”

Both of them will fit neatly in the pockets she’s been sewing into the waists of all of her gowns. 

Bran doesn’t have a gift for her, but he stumbles forward and hugs her tightly. 

“It’s been wonderful, getting to act like we’re all a family again.”

This is true, it’s the truest thing Sansa has heard in weeks. 

The next morning, when everything’s being packed and loaded, Davos presents her with a small carved wolf. 

“Know you’re probably too old for this sort of thing, but I made one for Shireen before-” he cuts himself off. 

Sansa smiles. 

“I love it.”

And she embraces the older man too. 

By the time she moves to hug Arya her arms are beginning to get sore from it all. 

“Torment Joffrey for me all you can,” she says, tearfully, “but do it safely.”

Oh what a world they’ve come to live in, Sansa thinks, that Arya is lecturing her on safety. 

Catelyn is the last in line. 

“Just remember, this is your home, we are your family. Your father too, don’t let him forget that.”

Catelyn Tully, Sansa thinks, ‘Family, Duty, Honor’, personified. 

As she mounts the stout gray mare that she has chosen to ride, Sansa tries not to eavesdrop on her parents’ goodbye. 

There’s been a shift, since Ned’s come back. While him and Catelyn could still only be described as cordial in their interactions, those cordial interactions have become more...comfortable. 

Looking back over her shoulder at Catelyn, Sansa wonders if her parents will ever be the same as they were. 

She looks at the rest of them. Arya’s holding Gendry’s arm tightly, Bran’s hiding his face. Robb is trying to look dignified, but his lip is quivering. Even Davos looks misty eyed. Only Rickon, little Rickon who may be the only member of the family with no clue what’s happening or what’s at stake.

This won’t be the last time they see each other. Not this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karsi and her daughters are the wildlings from the episode Hardhome- I pulled their names from the wiki.


	11. Chapter 11

**On the Kingsroad**

Just as she feared, Sansa is black and blue at the end of each day’s riding. They’re not even going very fast, but every time she climbs out of the saddle she feels like it’s become part of her. 

When they stop to eat in the evening, Ned mentions, 

“I’m surprised you chose to ride.”

“I didn’t last time,” Sansa admits, “And I feel like I missed out, like there’s so much of Westeros I haven’t really seen. Every other time we’ve traveled, it’s been under duress, so I couldn’t appreciate it.”

Traveling at peace, she’s grown to appreciate the landscape. Everything is green, at its peak of growth, not yet touched by the winds of autumn, though they are on the cusp of it. 

There’s a special sort of pain that comes to linger in Sansa’s gut caused by traveling alone with her father. 

Once, when watching him speak to some of the men, she feels a sob crawl it’s way out of her throat. 

When Ned looks at her, alarmed, her words spill out. 

“The last thing I said to you before...you died thinking I hated you.”

Ned freezes, and then hugs her. He tries to assure her, 

“There comes a point where as a parent, you accept that your children won’t stay little and perfectly adoring of you forever. I know you don’t hate me, and whatever it was over I’m sure I wouldn’t have held it against you.”

Sansa sniffs. 

“Gods, I must have been an awful child to deal with.”

Ned laughs. 

“You had your moments, all of you did. Some days we would have you swooning, Robb grandstanding, Jon sulking in the corner, Arya yelling and running away from the septa and Bran climbing something he shouldn’t all in one day. Rickon could do all of those in a single day himself, save maybe the swooning.”

When they pass through the Neck, it begins to rain lightly. The chill it brings puts Sansa’s mind back into her worst place. When they’re huddled under the covers of the tents one night, Sansa finally asks. 

“The Boltons are really gone?”

Ned looks at her gently. None of them had been forthcoming about how Sansa, in particular, seemed so threatened by the Boltons. And after what he had seen at the Dreadfort, he feels he really doesn’t need to know.

“I swung the sword myself.”

Sansa lets out a breath, and leans forward to hug her knees. 

“You should make sure to keep an eye on Ice,” she says, changing the subject rapidly, “Valyrian steel works on white walkers as well.”

“Not too many of those left in Westeros,” Ned comments. Sansa doesn’t tell him what became of it after his death.

“Gendry's old master could reforge it, he split Ice in two before. Sam seemed to think the Citadel might have some information on making new steel, but it didn't matter really because it involved dragon fire.”

Dragons. It should shock Ned more than it does. 

He stares off into the woods a lot that night. Dragons on his mind. 

When they finally reach King’s Landing, the smell assaults them both like a slap. Sansa steels herself, and walks to her place with dignity. 

The keep is as it was, huge and full of historical lore, but also intimidating and sitting atop a city crawling with unrest. 

The king too, is as he was. Fat, drunk and thoughtless. Thankfully he doesn’t give Sansa much notice. She looks out of the corner of her eye at him on occasion, seeing the resemblance to her good brother in what seems a near mockery. Sansa watches as he drinks and hunts his way throughout his days, laying all of his work on her Father and the council. Why did he even want to be king at all? Sansa thought, he fought a whole war, so many people died for it. What did any of this mean to him?

Cersei and Joffrey are much as they were too. Joffrey doesn’t pay her any mind, and Cersei only takes a moment to hold her chin in her fingers, nails sharpened to a point, and ask her if she had reconsidered the idea of marrying her eldest son. 

“Oh, no, “ Sansa assures her, “Joffrey is a prince, and I belong in the north. I simply did not wish my father to have to make this journey alone. “

After that, Sansa tries hard to steer clear of her. If she can escape the queen’s notice, it will be easier to escape her wrath. It’s much easier than cutting and running every time she spies Lord Baelish on the premises. She feels her stomach tighten every time, and Lady follows her when she walks the halls alone. 

Tommen and Myrcella both have changed some in the last not quite a year since she’s seen them, having grown taller and more into themselves. Sansa hadn’t paid Myrcella much attention before, being so blinded by the attentions of her older brother, but she now finds the girl a bright-eyed and willing companion. 

“None of the servants have daughters my age, and Mother likely wouldn’t let me play with them anyway. Joffrey won’t let me join him and Tommen in anything they get up to either.”

Sansa looks at Myrcella, the girl having gotten close to hitting a growth spurt and already becoming lovely. Sansa reaches in her mind for any memory she has of what became of her once she’d been sent away to Dorne. All she remembers is that it hadn’t ended well. 

But for now, she thinks the both of them could use a friend.’

“Do you know how to play cyvasse?” Sansa asks, recalling one of Gendry’s suggestions of past times. 

Myrcella’s eyes light up. 

“My uncle Tyrion has been teaching me, I’m sure he could teach you too!”

It’s strange to admit that Sansa has found herself avoiding Tyrion too. He’s back to the man she first met, and while she isn’t repulsed by him like she had been, she has to admit her feelings are mixed. 

He doesn’t mention anything about what she told him before he left Winterfell, or of the letter, but she can feel him watching her, like he wants to ask but can’t find the words. She knows the feeling. 

Myrcella convinces him one day after breakfast. They sit at a table in one of the gardens, over the board. After describing the movements of each of the pieces, Tyrion sits back to watch the two of them. 

“Remember, the goal for all the pieces is to protect the king from being killed.”

Sansa picks up one piece, the dragon, examining it. The set they’re using is made of up of ivory and jade, lovely craftsmanship. 

“Strange how the whole game is about protecting the king,” she comments, “But he’s not even the most powerful piece on the board.” 

There’s so much reality to her comment, she thinks as Myrcella nods, and they begin to play. 

She watches the board, and their hands moving the pieces around the board, fighting for the death of an imaginary monarch. What did all of that even mean to them?

She sighs, play stupid games, she thinks, win stupid prizes. 

**At Winterfell**

Gendry has been getting into the rhythm of the days at Winterfell. He eats in the Great Hall with all the others, then he works. It’s usually in the afternoon, after the bulk of the rest of the work is done, when him, and usually Meera, and sometimes one or two of the others, will continue on the stockpile of dragonglass weapons. 

The other girl didn’t pay him too much attention. She would chatter sometimes, idly, while they were working, but she seemed to focus on her work. The chip and whittle method she uses is time consuming, but her work always comes out well. 

One day, she surprises him by asking if he could make her some metal fish hooks. 

“I asked Arya if she wanted to go fishing with me in the Wolfwood in a few days,” she explains. 

It is odd, Gendry thinks, seeing them together. The morning that they choose to leave, Arya asks him if he wants to come with them. 

“That’s alright,” he says, never having really been a fan of nature. There’s something else too. 

“It’s nice seeing you with friends. Not sure if you ever had those, aside from us. And let’s be honest, Hot Pie wasn’t so much a friend as he was dead weight that occasionally produced delicious food.”

Arya leaves him off with just a hug, and he adds, 

“Be careful out there though.”

Meera had pulled down the pair of ash branches the day before and whittled them down. They were strapped to her back when she unsteadily joined Arya on their horse and left Winterfell through the hunter’s gate. 

Arya feels Meera shifting uncomfortably in front of her. 

“Still not quite steady?” she asks. 

Meera shakes her head, tight lipped. 

“I’m used to stepping carefully, for marshes and quicksand and unstable ground. It feels like I’m not quite in control up here.”

Arya pats the dappled gelding on the rump. 

“You will eventually get used to it. Horses aren’t the smartest of beasts, but they’re very predictable.”

It’s a short ride though, the stream isn’t far from the keep. It’s fairly deep, but not too wide. As children, the Starks used to dare each other to try and jump over it. Only Robb was ever brave enough to try, and he got soaked for his bravery. 

“What’s out right now?” Arya asks her, while she’s digging in the bank for worms for bait. 

“Trout mostly.”

When they bait their lines, and throw them out, Arya sits back against the tree they’ve parked by. 

“Did you really grow up doing this all the time?”

Meera nods. 

“If you were trying to get a bunch at once, to salt or something, it was usually easier to cast a net. Rod fishing was mostly for relaxing on nicer days, and bringing back something to fry just for dinner that day.”

Arya sits back and looks at the sky. It is a nice day, clear and sunny if awfully cold. The leaves on the trees are starting to turn towards golden towards autumn.

“I wish I could have done that,” Arya muses, “Growing up here, everything I wanted to do I was told wasn’t for ladies. If my mother had had her way I would have never even gone outside.”

“There were perks,” Meera agrees, “It’s very different in the Neck, a lot more goes into ensuring our day-to-day survival. There were girls like you’re sister there too, girls who hated hunting and swimming and the like. Girls who probably thought I was insane to still do those things even though I was highborn and likely could have elected to never.”

That is something Arya has come to understand; that there are girls like her everywhere, and girls like Sansa everywhere. She does kind of wish she’d known Meera the first time around, when she was younger. It might have helped to know there were other girls like her at all, that she wasn’t some kind of freak. 

They’ve caught three trout that Meera has gutted and strung up when the sun is high in the sky. 

“I’m going to go down stream to bury the guts,” she stands and tells Arya, taking the bucket to dump. 

When she’s done and goes to return, she feels the hairs on her arms stand up. She’s not sure why, but when she approaches, she, quietly as possible, climbs a nearby tree to get a look. 

There’s three of them, she realizes, two men and a woman, dressed in shabby skins and furs. One of them has a knife on Arya, who through some miracle, just looks bored. 

Meera clutches the knife she’d used to gut the fish in one hand. She can’t get the drop on three of them, she knows that. She loosens the grip, and reaches out, finding a cluster of acorns, pulling them loose and throwing them across the clearing. 

The distraction works, when the man with the knife nods to the woman to check it out, Arya reaches out to grab the knife. 

It’s a quick move, and from the yell the man lets out, Meera guesses Arya must have broken at least one of his fingers to get it. She flails out and slashes at him violently, cutting his face deeply before the other man grabs her from behind. 

Meera eyes the end of the branch she’s on. It’s just a bit too far, if she could just get a little bit closer, she might be able to jump on top of one of them…

It’s not an issue. Less than five seconds after the other man grabs Arya, there’s a rustling and a fierce howl before the wolf bursts into the clearing and leaps atop the man holding Arya back, and takes a deep bite out of the side of his face. 

Meera jumps down carefully into the fray, while she watches Arya, suddenly free, tackle the man she had slashed, who is still clutching his face. In one swift movement, she slashes his throat with his own knife. 

Arya is breathing heavily, and when Meera hits the ground and pulls her own knife. There’s still the woman to deal with. 

Though with the wolf, it’s muzzle covered in blood, standing beside the two corpses, she’s frozen, seemingly with no desire to try and fight it. 

The woman drops her knife, and Meera goes to grab it. She gets a good look at her then, and stops short. 

“Osha?”

If Osha is at all disturbed by her calling her by name, it doesn’t show. 

“Do what you will with me,” she says, “Just don’t let that thing kill me.”

Meera looks over at Arya, who’s got her hands on both sides of the wolf’s snout, and has her forehead pressed against its own. 

“That thing has a name,” Arya insists, “And it’s Nymeria.”

Nymeria was huge, Meera thought, bigger even than Summer had been full grown. She’d heard tell that Arya’s wolf was wilder than others, but it was apparently no less loyal. 

“What do we do with her?” she asks Arya, nodding in Osha’s direction. 

Arya points to the where they’d tied the horse. 

“I have rope in the pack. Tie her hands and we’ll bring her back to Winterfell.”

Meera does what she says, pulling Osha’s hands, which are still raised in surrender, to tie them behind her. 

Arya has paused, and is looking at the two corpses. 

“We’ll have to come back and burn them,” she comments, taking out her knife again, “but first…”

She takes the knife to the one who’s face she slashed. Meera watches in horror as Arya cuts the man’s face from his skull in one piece. 

Osha curses loudly, and starts muttering about witches. Meera understands. 

“What on earth are you-”

Not even looking up, Arya quietly asks, 

“Have you ever heard of the Faceless men?”

Meera’s stomach goes cold. There had been muttering about how Arya had spent her years missing before, but...

“You’re not-”

Arya laughs. 

“Not officially, but they did teach me a thing or two. A wildling face could prove very useful, even if it’s all cut and scarred.“

Once she’s done, she takes the rope Meera’s holding and pulls Osha back towards the horse. 

“You’ll walk.”

**At the Wall**

It had been, truly, for Jon to keep up his training at the Wall under the knowledge that his siblings had dropped upon him. The most effective route, he had discovered, was simply to try and forget he had learned any of it at all.

Sometimes this was harder than other times. 

It’s hard enough when he’s getting mocked by the others, for his birth (which he now wants to throw back in their faces) or the burgeoning friendship he’s developed with Sam. 

The worst is whenever he overhears some of the senior night’s watchmen speak of the intelligence they’ve gathered from over the wall. The wildling villages being abandoned, the burning of some keep that Jon has never heard of, the movements of a group of wildlings that they cannot assign a motive to. These are when the words of his siblings echo in his head. 

He wishes uncle Benjen had stayed at Castle Black, just so he could see a familiar face. 

But then they find the bodies of the other two rangers, and the corpses rise, and attack Lord Commander Mormont, just like the younger Stark’s had said they would. 

Jon, in the moment, does not think. His training and instinct take over. When Mormont presents him with the sword, Longclaw, afterwards, he finds that he tries not to accept it. 

When the older man pushes it on him anyway, he wonders about the certainty of what else they had told him. 

And so, one night, he seeks out Maester Aemon. 

After the older man offers him a chair, Jon cuts to the chase. 

“You never talk about yourself, where did you grow up? And why the Night’s Watch?”

Aemon chuckles, and comments, 

“First real brush with danger making you question your life choices? Well, if there’s nothing else that could…”

The old man tells him of his youth, growing up in King’s Landing. 

“I knew wealth, and women. I could have even been king…”

Jon’s stomach seizes. 

“You- your…” his mind reaches out into his history lessons, guessing at the man’s age. “You’re Aemon Targaryen.”

The old man chuckles. The rest of the words he tells Jon are a mess. Jon doesn’t even have the presence of mind to ask him about the Others like he had intended. 

When he wanders back to the barracks, he realizes, that if the old Maester is in fact who he told him, then Jon is his blood family, who may be the only family the old man knows he has left. 

**Over the Wall**

Henneh was the one they had sent out to blend in. She hadn’t bled yet, and would have been the old man’s next wife. Young enough to not be considered a viable threat. 

Gilly clutches the baby and waits for her to return. She finally does at sunset. 

“Is it true?” they ask her when she does. 

Henneh nods. 

“It’s true, the rumors. Mance Rayder is seeking the Horn of Winter, he wants to use it to bargain with the crows, to threaten to bring down the whole wall.”

“We can’t allow that,” a raspy voice interrupts. The woman who spoke it was old, though no larger than Henneh. Her skin was still gray and the leaves growing from her head were beginning to droop. She had told them that her name was Rowan, and she was the last remaining of the Children of the Forest. She had come to them one night, whispering the stories of the deaths of the rest of her people, and how she was trying to put into motion a plan that might save the rest of the realm.

“My magic can keep the illusion on the cave as long as we need, it’s small magic. But if the Wall comes down our plans with shatter. “

“Do you even have enough magic left for the plan?”

Rowan smiles. 

“Most of its long gone. Opening the rift back here took a lot out of me, but it was necessary. Very little magic is involved in the plan we made, but we will need help. We must get to Castle Black before Mance Rayder, and before he can even think to bring down the wall.”

All of the women nod. 

Before they leave that night, Gilly rocks her baby to sleep, wondering what they will call this little group after the fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning- I finally got a full time job again, so my updates may become more sporadic, but don't worry, I have no plans to abandon this (and in fact, I am actually starting to outline an actual plot!)


	12. Chapter 12

In Kings Landing

Ned does not like King’s Landing any more in this life than he did in the previous. 

He spends the days trying to navigate a world he barely understands, on advice from his daughter which may not always hold true. He makes sure to eat the evening meal with her every night, to try and heed her advice, and to see if there’s anything either of them can do to help the other.

When he’d spoken to her about not understanding how Littlefinger had come up with money for the tourney to celebrate his appointment as Hand, she just shook her head. 

“That’s one of his skills, making money appear out of nowhere. I know he’s in debt to the Lannisters, heavily, but I wonder sometimes if he is to any of the other great houses. “

Littlefinger bothers her, Ned can tell, but she won’t say why. He thinks back to what she told him and Catelyn, and wonders if it was the whole truth. He tries to be wary of the man as much as he can. 

Today, Sansa appears morose as soon as they sit down to eat. 

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“What? Oh, it’s nothing you should concern yourself with. “

Ned can’t tell if he should. Whether or not she’s being honest or if he should pry. He can’t read Sansa nearly as well as he used to, and it makes his heart ache. 

Truthfully, she’s still thinking over something that happened earlier that day.  
Her and Myrcella had again been playing cyvasse, Lady sitting neatly at Sansa’s side. Tommen had come by, and Sansa had spotted a bruise on his neck. Tyrion had left her and Myrcella to their game earlier and it was just the three of them in the little corner of the gardens where the table lay. 

“How did that happen?”

Tommen had tried to shrug it off, but she had pressed. The bruise creeps up his collar onto his chin, and it’s shaped vaguely like a hand. 

“Archery practice. I didn’t get out of Joffrey’s way fast enough, so he just kind of shoved me.”

“Hard enough to leave a bruise?” Sansa implores. 

She hears Myrcella next to her make a noise. 

“Anything that gets in Joffrey’s way is liable to get slapped aside.”

Sansa’s heart sinks. She should have known she wasn’t the first one Joffrey had enjoyed tormenting. Tommen was kind and gentle and plump and had probably made a very easy target. Right now he was even carefully scratching Lady’s ears.

“Don’t you tell your mother about this? You’re her children-”

Myrcella makes another noise, one from deep in her throat. It almost sounds like a laugh, but a rough, angry sort of laugh that ought not come from a girl her age. 

“We are her children, and she loves us. Just it always seems that she loves Joffrey most.”

Sansa opens her mouth but no words come out. Tommen starts going on about how he just needs to get better and stronger, and then Joffrey won’t be able to push him around anymore, but she’s not listening. She knows it’s not true. Joffrey loves to bully people, but she never thought it might extend to his own flesh and blood.

Soon she will be taller than him, she thinks vindictively. Maybe he’ll think twice before picking on those smaller than him if they’re with someone who isn’t. 

Later in the day, she manages to corner Tyrion for a few moments after he leaves from eating his dinner. 

“Did you know that our Prince enjoys hitting his siblings?”

Tyrion’s responding sigh is deep and resigned.

“I’ve never seen it, but it does not surprise me. Our prince is rather fond of reminding others of his position in relation to them.”

“I assume your sister knows about this?”

Tyrion turns his head, so he does not quite meet her eye.

“I believe so, she has always had a weakness in seeing the bad in her eldest babe.”

“Well what about their father?”

“I don’t think our Grace has thought of much outside of his cup and his sword in many years.”

Sansa stares at him, and Tyrion feels the same disquiet in his gut that he did when she whispered that name in his ear. The corridor they are in is deserted, but she keeps her voice low. 

“His real father,” she intones, voicing with a lilt sounds almost as though she was rolling her eyes. 

Gods above, Tyrion thinks, after what she had said about Tysha, this somehow doesn’t surprise him at all. 

Sansa’s voice is kinder when she continues, 

“Myrcella speaks of both her uncles with great affection, has Jamie shown any attention to either of the boys?”

She does have a point, he thinks. Jamie always did have a special spot in his heart for Myrcella, after paying his eldest hardly a thought.

“Perhaps he should,” she adds, “Unless he wants Joffrey and Tommen to end up more like you and Cersei rather than you and him.”

Sansa hears the creak of a door opening somewhere, so she steps and pivots before taking off, Lady trailing at her heels. She’s supposed to be with the Septa right now. Sometimes, if she sits far back, she can see training yard from a window. 

At Winterfell

Arya didn’t even realize that she’d gotten blood on her hands until the three of them returned to Winterfell and Robb had rushed forward. She acknowledges the red stains on her hands, with a dim, 

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s not mine.”

She watches out of the corner of her eye as Bran and Jojen join the group at the gate, as Meera goes to the both of them. She only hears bits of their conversation, 

“Just like you said before...not too worried...it’s not like she ever liked me that much any way…”

None of them pay much attention as Rickon wanders up, away from Old Nan, to join them too. He regards the wildling woman curiously, as he had with Karsi and the girls, before merely accepting them as another part of his life. 

Her heart pinches when Robb is interrogating Osha. She remembers that Osha had stayed with Rickon for years, had protected him until the end. 

The other woman is shaking now though.

“You aren’t the first to end up here, Do you think there will be more?”

Osha’s words come out stuttered, 

“I don’t know. Please, I’ll serve, I’ll be your prisoner, just don’t kill me, and don’t make me go near the witch,” 

She says, pointing to Arya, fixing her with a look of disdain. 

Robb laughs softly. 

“It will be fine, I’ve never seen Arya willingly go to the kitchens unless she was sneaking food.” 

Arya feels the look like a slap, and afterwards, spends minutes trying to wash the blood from her hands. It shouldn’t upset her really, but she did just kill one of Osha’s friends in front of her. 

After supper, she drags Gendry off into the Godswood. It had once been Ned’s favorite place to think, and the children have joined in on it. The two of them sit pressed together under one of the trees in its center, as the sun begins to go down. 

“I’m not ashamed of it. I’m not, any of it.” Arya insists, slowly, “But I’m so sick of feeling like killing is the only thing I’m good for. Growing up, I never wanted to be a killer. I just wanted to keep people I loved safe. “

“You did that though, didn’t you?” Gendry asks her. She’s resting her face in the crook of his neck. He’s missed this, really. The little intimacies that have gotten harder to come by. He can already see the faint blush that appears on her cheeks every time they so much as hold hands. 

“I guess so, “ Arya muses, “But there must be other things I can do to help. “

“Talk to your mother,” Gendry tells her, “She’s the Lady of the keep, and with your father gone she must have double the work. Your brother may be the Lord in name right now, but he’s obviously not ready to do things on his own. Lady Catelyn spends most of the day with him, she must have work that she gets behind on.”

Arya doesn’t respond, she just thinks on his words. Before they get up to leave before the wood is bathed in total darkness, she turns and leans to kiss him, just once. The night hides the scarlet of her cheeks.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with a wife who has barely begun to grow into a woman yet.”

“It’s not all bad.” he insists, “I wasn’t exactly beating girls off with a stick before. I had nobody at all. Now I do have you, even if you’re not ripe.”

Arya makes a face, and thwaps him lightly on the nose for comparing her to a piece of fruit. 

“Well you’re not exactly at your peak yourself. You used to stare at your feet whenever a woman so much as looked at you.”

The next morning, after breakfast, she goes in search of Lady Catelyn. She finds her in Ned’s solar, looking over a bunch of papers and looking frazzled. 

“What are you doing?”

Catelyn doesn’t even look up once she registers the voice as belonging to her younger daughter. 

“Autumn’s nearly here. We have to send out orders for the harvests to begin. We’re going to ask for a larger percentage to be set aside than usual, and there also adjusting the household numbers for the extra people…but I’m supposed to be meeting with Robb to receive the messenger from White Harbour, and I…”

Arya cuts her off. 

“Let me look over the numbers.”

Catelyn stops and meets her eye then. 

“Go. You remember, Septa Mordane always said I was good with numbers, and would be able to run a household no problem. Let me work on this while you help Robb. You can check all my sums before anything goes out. “

Catelyn looks at Arya as though seeing her for the first time. Then she nods, and stands, putting one hand on Arya’s shoulder, before leaving the room. 

Arya takes the seat, glances down at the mess of papers on the table, before taking a deep breath, and cracking her knuckles. 

“Well, let’s see what we can make of all this.”

The hours go by, and at some point, Catelyn returns. She looks over the papers with only a small bit of surprise. When Arya makes a move to leave the roof, she asks.

“Arya? If I had had you help me with this all before, would you…”

Arya smiles. 

“No eleven year old is excited by paperwork. In the end, it might have done something for me, but I would not have been appreciative of it in the moment.”

And with that, she leaves.

Catelyn was right on, it turns out. The white raven from the Citadel flies over head less than a week later. 

Bran sees it from the training yard, and puts down his bow, to leave for the rookery, as fast as his crooked leg will carry him.

Jojen stands too, and with a nod to Meera, who’s showing Willa how to hold her spear with both hands. Follows after him. 

“You think she’s ready?”

“It’s an easy job. After us, it only has to get to the Last Hearth before it’s job is done. “

Bran takes out Una, the largest of the raven chicks, and holds her between his hands. He watches the path that the white raven is making, and briefly his eyes turn white, before he whispers to Una, “fly north”. 

He releases the bird, and she takes off in the direction of her pale sister. 

Stopping to catch his breath, Bran asks Jojen, 

“Want to take a ride before dinner?”

Jojen’s gotten better on his horse fairly quickly, it turns out. He’s patient with it. Bran has been riding for so long, that his struggle to get into the saddle still vexes him more than he’d admit to most. 

“It’s just that it’s all new, “ he admits, “I knew exactly how to deal with it before. Want to walk? You can’t. You can roll over or crawl if there’s something for you to grab. If your stomach starts to hurt randomly, you probably haven’t gone to the bathroom in a while and you can’t always feel it anymore. Try not to trap your feet and legs under you, you won’t know if you injure them. Now I have to figure out different things every single day it seems.”

Jojen nods, understanding a bit.

“Growing up, I knew I could drop and seize from a vision pretty much any time. I never even really learned to swim properly because Father and Mother were afraid I would seize in the water and drown. I’ve never gone out without a tether.” 

They ride at a comfortable trot for a while. 

“I had another dream last night,” Jojen says. 

Bran stops abruptly and looks at him. 

“How come you didn’t tell us at breakfast?”

“Because I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Jon Snow was there, on the far side of the wall. He was in chains, and being led somewhere. There was a weirwood tree where they were going, but it sort- looked wrong. Like I saw it there, but knew it couldn’t be.”

Bran’s eyebrows furrow in thought. 

“We’ll talk about it with everyone later, but first I think we need to go and tell Davos before he leaves.”

It has been decided that the best way to approach the topic of letting the wildlings through the wall would be to have Davos go in person. Osha’s arrival has been fortuitous to the plan. As a tenant of her imprisonment, she will accompany him to tell her story to the Night’s Watch. 

Robb had tried to assure her that she would not be harmed if she was accompanied by Ser Davos, but she still shook and fought, but had no real recourse to refuse. 

“Seeing Osha now is strange, “ Bran says, “It reminds me that when I met her before, I was small enough she could carry me on her shoulders. Which means I still am that small, even if I don’t feel like it.”

“Meera used to do that,” Jojen says, uncharacteristically wistful. “when I was too small to even wade properly through streams. She would just pull me onto her shoulders and go across no problem. It does sort of make you feel like-”

“Cargo?” Bran asks. Jojen nods. He’s quiet still, contemplative. 

Bran takes a deep breath before his next words. 

“After you died, before, it tore Meera up. For ages after, when we were in that cave, she seemed lost. Didn’t seem to know if it was all worth it-”

I agree with her now, he suddenly realizes. 

“I wanted to make her feel better, but I didn’t really know how.”

He curses himself for it now. For having been so possessed by the idea that he was broken, that he’d forgotten he still had hands that could have touched her, and words that could have comforted her.

“I didn’t know then that I had also lost a brother.”

Jojen remains silent for a long time. 

“Growing up, Father and Mother always listened to my dreams and visions. They always knew they were important. I think Meera sometimes thought that meant they favored me over her. I don’t think she ever saw herself as she was. Strong and healthy and clever, she the eldest child, and we didn’t know if I would even live to adulthood.”

“You might now,” Bran tells him, “You did die before, but you were killed by wights, you didn’t die of an illness. You still could grow up, grow old.”

“I’ll remember that the next time Meera steals the sausage off my plate or throws acorns at me while I’m trying to read.”

“I said she grieved you, I didn’t say she suddenly wasn’t your sister.”

They finish up their ride, and then return the horses and go to find Davos. 

The older man is reading a letter when they do. 

“Ser Davos,” Bran begins, “Jojen had a vision this morning, and we thought you should hear of it before you leave tomorrow.”

They go over everything again, and Davos nods in understanding. 

When they leave, to join the others for supper, it suddenly hits Bran. 

“The weirwood you described sounded like the one we found.”

Meera wrinkles her brow, 

“But it just looked normal from the outside, why would it looks so strange in his vision.”

“Maybe something’s happened to it this time around.”

Bran is quiet for a long time after, while the others are chattering with speculation. 

When they all get up to leave, he hangs back and reaches out to touch Meera’s arm. When she pauses and looks, he glances off to one side. He doesn’t have to speak. 

There’s a little alcove outside the Great Hall, between the tiny, rarely used sept and a couple of planted trees. The leaves on the trees are turning already, and it’s clear and light enough still that the glow reminds Bran of the weirwood. Once the others have gained some distance, he asks her quietly, 

“Do you remember what my uncle said to us when he left, why he said he couldn’t come to the wall with us?”

Meera stills for a moment, thinking. She’s sitting cross-legged beneath the tree, twiddling with a blade of grass between her fingers. 

“About being marked, and because of that, he couldn’t cross it anymore without affecting the magic on the Wall?”

Bran bites his lip before his next words. 

“I’m marked too.”

Meera’s eyes fly open. 

“You think that’s-”

“There’s no way to know, but it makes sense. The others were too far away to descend upon it at once, but it didn’t even take a year until they breached it. That’s why I told Karsi and the girls that they shouldn’t be able to get over the wall any time soon.”

Meera shuts her eyes, suddenly looking very tired. The whole sequence of events have become such a mixture of anger and fear and shame inside her mind that at any moment it all threatens to come spilling out. She tosses aside the bits of grass she’s been toying with, and tries to change the subject.

“Has Una made her trip yet?”

“She’ll make it before midnight. I’ll warg into her before bed, and when I get up.”

He sits down beside her, carefully. 

“I’m worried. She’s my first. What if she gets shot or eaten? What if everything I’ve learned is wrong and she can’t find her way home?”

Meera had reached out to steady him when he sat down. Her hand lingers over his, her thumb rubbing circles softly over the joint where his thumb meets his wrist. 

“She’ll be fine Bran,” she tells him, “Ravens find their ways home all the time, without our help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next three chapters cover a three year time jump (it's already been over a year since the beginning of GOT), but I haven't decided if I should keep with the shifting POV or dedicate a whole chapter to each location. Opinions?


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers the first year after Ned and Sansa leave for King's Landing.

At King’s Landing 

Autumn in King’s Landing stays warm late. 

There’s a small nook that overlooks the training yard. Many mornings, Sansa and Lady awake early, and sneak into it, watching the boys and men. 

Lady is still small, and delicate. No one in the keep is ever frightened of her, and because of this, she escapes notice. Sansa often daydreams of setting her on Joffrey and Cersei. Not yet though.

It’s in this small nook where one morning, she is found by Varys. She’s surprised, she never gave the eunuch much in the way of thought, and she had figured that she wasn’t of much interest to him.

“Some might ask why the eldest daughter of the Lord of a great house would be content to come to the capitol and leave her home and siblings behind.”

Sansa smiles, 

“That girl might ask the man what he knows of the North, and what the little birds have said about it too.”

In what may be a true first, she sees Varys’s face falter. 

“My little birds have been telling me much of the North as of late. Some of it rather unbelievable.”

Sansa’s smile continues, 

“This little bird might tell you to pay the unbelievable a little more attention.”

Her answer seems to satisfy him for a bit, and so he leaves her be. The words feel foreign on her tongue. No one has called her little bird in years. The man who first called her that is within the same keep, but wouldn’t know her from a hole in the ground. And the whole bit of “the girl” reminds her far too much of the times when Arya would get too lost in her own head and begin referring to herself in the third person.

It’s not been too awful, these first months. Aside from avoiding Cersei and Joffrey’s notice, Lord Baelish has returned to the Fingers for a time, leaving Sansa with a decided spring in her step. She writes lots of letters, reads lots of books. She plays cyvasse with Myrcella, and takes walks with her in the garden. She watches Tyrion and Jamie from afar, trying to reconcile them as they are with as they were. 

She tries to enjoy the food in the capital more than she did before. It certainly is sumptuous and varied. She usually eats supper with her father in the tower of the hand, so she doesn’t even have to worry too much about her table manners.

One night, they’re dining on roast boar and vegetables, and her favorite lemon cakes for dessert. 

Ned looks at her oddly, when he notes that she’s got a roll of paper out and is writing in the middle of the meal. 

Sansa laughs, 

“Gendry needs practice on his reading and writing, and most people enjoy reading about food. “

It’s also a topic that would be very easily dismissed if the letter fell into the wrong hands, she thinks to herself. She can’t write anything very sensitive to her siblings in plain script. She keeps her eyes peeled for the sight of one of Bran’s ravens to carry her more secret ones. 

“Plus it’s a good impromptu lesson on some of the bits of trade within Westeros”.

Ned looks at the spread of the table. It is a good one to think on. The boar was shot and brought in from the King’s own wood, the roots and vegetables grown in the Riverlands. The wheat for the flour and cane for the sugar could only be grown in the Reach, or perhaps even come from overseas. And the lemons were a staple export of Dorne. King’s Landing was a center of trade, itself producing very little, but gathering so much from so far.

“Robert always has enjoyed his food and drink.”

Sansa pauses at his words. 

“I know it’s probably hard, seeing him like this. I can barely imagine.”

Ned’s glad she can only do that. To see an old friend who he best remembers as a strong, boisterous man full to the brim with life rendered as his life has caught up with him.

“Every day it’s like watching another piece of who he used to be break off and fall into the ether.”

There’s a long silence. It’s not awkward, they both know there’s nothing more that needs to be said. 

“Are you going to go out extra early tomorrow morning again?”

Sansa laughs softly. She’d snuck out before sunup that morning to practice with her bow before anyone else woke up. Tommen often does something similar. She’s been trying to dodge him for the most part, but she feels like one day she might often him a sympathetic ear. 

“Probably not tomorrow, don’t want to become predictable.”

“Well the next time you do,” Ned advises, “Try and be back before the Septa comes looking for you. Wouldn’t want to become known for being tardy either.”

Sansa nods. 

She pays more attention to Septa Mordane, tries to anyway. She knows the ins and outs of manners and etiquette, but tries to pay as much attention as possible to history. One day, she’s suddenly grabbed by a memory of one of her less charming moments, and so she asks the older woman. 

“How did you even come to us in the first place?”

And this time, she doesn’t interrupt her answer. 

After not quite a year, Sansa gets a look at King Robert one morning during a procession, and it doesn’t leave her mind. 

“I was wondering,” she asks the Septa. She is proper in every way, and shouldn’t chide her for asking an honest question. “If anyone has noticed that King Robert is looking a bit...yellow?”

The older woman sighs deeply. 

“I fear our grace may be have been afflicted by some sort of disease of the liver brought on by too much drink. Don’t trouble yourself with it, Pycelle will care for him to the best of any mortal human’s ability. His fate rests with the gods now.”

Was that really going to be it? Sansa thought. After avoiding a violent death was Robert Baratheon instead going to be brought down by a mere illness?

Apparently Westeros was going to find out. 

The year is nearly up the first time it happens. It’s always night, when Sansa slips easily into Lady’s skin. She sleeps in the Godswood usually, but wanders throughout the keep easily enough, quiet as a mouse. 

Once when it happens, she finds Tommen practicing his archery on his own, in the dark of night. He’s favoring his right side, and stares at the target all the harder. 

He doesn’t notice Jamie hanging off the edge of the training yard, watching. Perhaps Sansa’s comments to Tyrion actually lead to something.

She wonders at Jamie a lot. Brienne wasn’t someone who seemed easily charmed, and if Jamie had won her trust, he must have earned it. 

After that, Sansa drifts back into her own body, and soon wakes. At dawn, she finds Lady outside her door. 

She rubs her fingers deep into her soft gray fur. 

“You’ve let me in at night, girl. Would you ever let me in just because I asked?”

Winterfell 

It’s an ordinary day when it happens. There’s already a dusting of snow on the ground. 

Bran hadn’t been thinking anything unusual when he walked into the Great Hall. It’s when he greets the others that they all stop and stare at him. 

“What?”

“Did you...gargle with a bunch of rocks this morning?” is how Arya puts it. 

There’s a long moment of silence, and after, Robb explains, 

“Your voice.”

“Oh,” Bran says, feeling the strange resistance in his vocal cords. “Right, I guess it’s about time that happened.”

“Should we even ask when it happened before?” Robb asks, before wondering if he should have.

Bran’s eyes have the darkness to them that has come to be a near everyday sight on their faces.

“I thought I had just screamed myself hoarse, and then later I realized why it didn’t go away.”

He remembers the screaming. The day Theon sacked Winterfell it had seemed like he had screamed for hours straight. They had been halfway to the wall before he’d realized that his voice hadn’t gone back to normal. 

Theon, who is sitting at the end of the table, and who feels the need to interject. 

“Screaming at what, a grumkin?”

Bran gets up and leaves the table.

All of them give Theon a wide berth now. The young man has changed since returning from the Dreadfort, becoming more withdrawn and thoughtful, but this does not truly cement friendship.

It had begun to bother Robb. He and Theon had always been close, and he wanted to know why his other siblings were so reticent about him. It was enough that they all refused to speak of what had happened to him. Sure, he was curious, but it was more than that. It seemed like they barely talked to him at all anymore. 

In fact, the only of the group that didn’t shy away from him after long conversations, was Gendry. He wasn’t exactly loquacious, but he never shied away from Robb like the others did. 

Which is why he’d sought him out this day, some time before supper. He finds him hunched over a letter, slowly marking his progress with the tip of his finger. 

“What are you reading?”

Gendry glances up at him, before laying a weight down over the last line he’d read. 

“Sansa writes to me to force me to practice my reading. We don’t exactly have much in common interests, so she mostly writes me about food.”

He glances up at Robb. 

“Something on your mind?”

It takes a moment before Robb can form the words. 

“You never met me, before, right?”

Gendry shakes his head. 

“I’m...I’m assuming that’s because I died right?”

There’s another long pause before Gendry asks. 

“What would it do if I told you yes?”

“What would it do?” Robb asks, confused, “I could change it, I could be prepared…”

Gendry shakes his head. 

“I don’t think you quite realize how much has changed already. You might never be in that exact place again. But if I tell you, you’ll always think of it.”

There’s another gap of silence, and Robb swears he briefly sees a look of shame pass the other man’s face. 

“When I met Arya before, we ended up getting separated. The men we were traveling with sold me to a red priestess. I went because she filled my head with lofty nonsense, but it turns out all she wanted me for was my blood and for a sacrifice. Davos managed to rescue me before she got to the burning part. “

Gendry looks at him, imploring him to listen. 

“It didn’t happen, and it won’t happen again. But I still have to remember the first time a woman laid hands on me I was chained and about to be hurt, and Arya still has to remember seeing me dragged off like a lamb to the slaughter. We’re not better or worse off with that particular bit of knowledge.”

Robb finds himself at a loss for words, so he deflects. 

“Would you say the same thing about Theon?”

Gendry thinks, and then sort of shrugs. 

“I know Theon died protecting your brother during the Long Night, and everyone treated it as some kind of atonement for something awful. Other than that...no one ever really mentioned him. I know Sansa gave him more thought than the others, it might just be that no one was terribly close to him.”

Robb leaves holding that thought in his mind. 

It is true. He’s been sharing all his thoughts, all his emotions, on this whole bizarre situation with Theon. Who has somehow remained completely unbothered by it. His undercover work with the Boltons had taken more of a toll than his siblings return from the future. 

Maybe Gendry’s right. Maybe if Theon is unbothered by their behavior, than perhaps he should just let it lie. 

Robb passes Arya on the way out. 

She sticks her head in and says, 

“If you want to go riding still, we have to go today, there’s a storm coming.”

Well “want” had been a strong word being that Gendry still bounces around in the saddle like a child, but he gets up and follows her out.

Autumn at Winterfell is odd. Though the snow falls more often, sometimes the temperature rises to near summer highs, it does not bring relief from the cold. Instead it results in violent rainstorms the North rarely sees in other seasons. 

Far more than the snow, these storms bring Winterfell to a halt. They delay shipments and ravens and activity. They are the most likely explanation, they all convince themselves, for why Davos and Osha haven’t yet returned from the wall. 

During one particularly heavy storm, most of them are huddled with Gendry in the forge, working on the dragon glass. They’ve nearly reached capacity on spear and arrowheads, so they’re working on larger knives and daggers now. It’s one of the only places in Winterfell that’s still warm.

“I don’t know what you’re all talking about,” Gendry insists, “This is nice. It’s like when it rained back in King’s Landing, but it’s all clean, instead of just bringing smoke and filth down upon you.”

“You just say that because you got fewer customers in the rain.”

Well that’s not a lie.

“I always liked the rain. Or, I guess, I liked when the rain stopped.” Meera admits, “It made all the creeks and streams swell and everything comes to the surface.”

“That does sound nice. All it does here is leave everything drowned and water logged for a week,” is Arya’s take. 

The wildlings don’t seem to care for the rain either. Both Johnna and Wylla turn careful and fidgety during it. Rickon too. Watching all of them together, most of the Starks would have thought Rickon a wildling himself.

While it rains, they don’t get any more fleeing refugees from over the wall.

By the end of the year, the storms mostly stopped, replaced by the lighter snow more typical of the time.

This, of course, happens at a time when Arya could have actually used a bucket of rainwater. 

Catelyn is the one who walks past her filling and hauling in a bucket of snow to melt one morning, and looks at her quizzically.

Arya looks at her, somewhat shyly.

“Moon’s blood. I know you’re supposed to use cold water, I wanted to get it out while it was still wet. “

Catelyn is overcome by a strange combination of pride, sadness and nostalgia. She reaches out and squeezes Arya tightly, which she apparently didn’t expect, because she squeaks. 

“You don’t need to do that. The laundresses are women, they know accidents happen.”

Arya scoffs into her chest. 

“I’m not scared of a little blood, and it’ll come out easier if I do it now.”

Catelyn holds her for a few moments before letting her go. She touches her face one last time. 

“You’re growing into a woman right before my eyes.”

Arya rolls her eyes. 

“It’s not going to be dramatic. I just get a little taller and a little rounder in spots. It’s not like you wouldn’t recognize me after.”

She returns to her chambers a little flush with happiness though. She had been upset to wake up and find her thighs stained with blood earlier than she expected (apparently not being stressed and starving all the time accelerated things). But at least when it happened here she got greeted with praise. When it had happened before, she had been on the ship to Braavos and just spent her time thanking every deity that would listen that it hadn’t happened when she was traveling with the Hound. 

And maybe she does feel a little different now, a little more one with herself. 

That night, she dreams she’s with Nymeria. It’s not one of her wolf dreams, she can’t smell the blood of that night’s supper or the trail of a hunting party that’s passed through the woods. 

She runs a hand along Nymeria’s muzzle. She’s staring at her, deep into her.

“Go,” Arya tells her, “Find your pack, bring them home. That’s what I did.”

And with that, Nymeria raises her head and howls. Arya takes a deep breath, and returns it. 

Over the Wall

Jon woke to his hands and feet tied, and having been relieved of his weapons. He kicks himself repeatedly for letting it happen. Ever since Ygritte and him had gotten separated from the others it felt like he had been off his game, like his head was swimming through his life and nothing could go right. There’s a bitter smell stuck in his nose, which he will later realize is a poultice of some sort of herb that kept him asleep while they tied him. 

The group that drags him to his feet is fairly small, and he is even more confused when he notices they seem to all be women, one even clutching a baby in her arms. None of them look like how he images spearwives to look, in fact, they are all in patched furs and rather bedraggled looking. The one holding the rope that binds his hands is nearly as tall as he, and from the look of the lines and crags of her face, likely more than twice his age. 

“We don’t want to hurt you,” a voice says. When Jon turns his head to follow the sound of the voice, he freezes in shock when he sees what it came from.

The small figure is wizened, and the women look to her for guidance. 

“We’ve traveled a long way to find you, Jon Snow.”

Jon’s memories, the swirl of things his siblings had said to him before he left home mixing and fading among his mind. 

“You might be thinking that that might not be your name, but that is the man you are becoming. And if you wish to truly live up to that man, you must come with us.”

His life has become so utterly bizarre at this point, that Jon doesn’t resist with the woman tugs on the rope. He later finds out her name is Jyna, and she was Craster’s first wife, the only one who was not also his daughter.

One of them, the girl with the baby, asks, gesturing on the ground where Ygritte still sleeps. 

“What should we do with her, Rowan?” 

Rowan shakes her head. 

“She is not relevant to our goal, whether she comes or not does not matter.”

Rowan looks to Jon, 

“What do you think?”

Jon gazes at Ygritte with an unfamiliar mix of emotions in his gut. They had been arguing earlier that day, about why their peoples were even fighting. He had been certain, afterward, that she was just trying to goad him. Now, asleep in the snow, she looked almost fragile. “

“Bring her with us.” he says slowly, “She’ll die if we leave her out here by herself.”

Rowan nods. 

“I had to give a lot more to keep her down,” one of the other women comments, “She probably won’t wake for a while.”

“Then I suppose we should discuss where we’re going from here then,” Rowan says, sitting in the snow, “Jon, perhaps you should sit down.”


	14. Chapter 14

King’s Landing

It’s barely at all into the second year of autumn when Myrcella leaves for Dorne. 

Sansa had been upset. Myrcella had been the closest thing she had made to a friend in King’s Landing. Myrcella hadn’t been entirely happy about it either. 

“I’ve never even met this Trystane. He could be awful and I wouldn’t know until I’m stuck there.”

Sansa hugs her multiple times. It’s all she can feel like doing. She can’t tell Myrcella how much she understands. Maybe she will someday. 

“You’re smarter than you look, and braver than you think. Remember that,” is what she tells her. They’re all by the docks, waiting to say farewell. 

Lord Tyrion has positioned himself off to the side, by Ned and Sansa, with Tommen and Jamie acting as a barrier between them and Cersei. It’s a defensive posture. 

Myrcella waves until they can’t see her anymore. She doesn’t cry. Even if she had wanted to, part of her mind is a bit relieved.

“I take it your sister wasn’t happy about your suggestion?” Sansa asks Tyrion, waving, her face held completely straight.

“To say Cersei wasn’t happy is like Flea Bottom doesn’t reek.”

Sansa smiles weakly at that. Despite her internal struggle to agree with Cersei about anything, she understands her distaste for this. Shipping her only daughter off to marry a man she has never met. While she has come to understand the game of thrones, she has become completely disdainful of many of its movements. 

“I suppose she was upset, thinking that was all your idea?”

He turns to look at her. 

“It’s not the first time our Grace has ever brought up betrothing his daughter to secure an alliance. He’s always been wary of Dorne. And it’s not like my sister would have ever believed you had suggested it.”

Sansa feels some shame at that. Ned had told her one night that Myrcella’s hand was being discussed with a new degree of seriousness, and she had taken a deep breath, and made her suggestion.

And now the result of that act is happening in front of you. She waves as the boat drifts away. 

And this time, it’s not followed by a riot. Whatever King Robert’s flaws, he is not nearly as quick to bloodlust as Joffrey. 

The next few days, finding herself alone in the gardens, is when Myrcella’s absence really sinks in.

She’s been examining the board before her, when Tyrion’s shadow creeps onto it. Even before he sits, she finds herself smiling. 

“Please tell me you’ll spare me a game or two?” she asks.

He beats her narrowly the first time, and they’re in the middle of the second bout when she finally breaks her silence. 

“You’ve never asked me...about anything that I told you.”

He raises an eyebrow, his face carefully hiding his emotions. 

“You mean how a young girl somehow managed to not only become privy to one of the few great secrets in my life, but who also is somehow able to have had such a sudden change in demeanor and seem to have such uncanny insights into other people’s motivations and thoughts?”

She’s never really thought about it like that. 

“I knew the name of the man Myrcella was betrothed to before. I’m not sure how the actual engagement went, but in the end, it didn’t end well for either of them. I also knew that it was over a year ago that it happened. And I know that before, it was you who suggested it, to help keep Myrcella from the viper’s nest that is this entire city.”

Her face turns pensieve. 

“I don’t even know if she liked him or not. I know they both died though. Maybe they won’t this time.”

“Maybe you won’t be forced into whatever position ended with my brother or father laying my greatest shame on you.”

Sansa feels her stomach twist at his words. She knows that the topic is a deeply sensitive one for him. 

“It wasn’t either of them, you told me yourself.”

He scoffs, and Sansa feels cold run through her, and a tiny bit of anger. 

“The last time I was in King’s Landing, I had lost nearly everything and spent my days terrified of making a single mistake. You showed my kindness in those days, the only bit of kindness I got that didn’t have a string on it. I know you don’t think highly of yourself, but you shouldn’t be deluded enough to think that no one else does, and that things you do would mean nothing.”

She stands and leaves, trying not to huff. It’s not fair, and she knows it, but she can’t help feeling this way. 

Soon after Myrcella leaves, Littlefinger returns. Sansa’s stomach crawls into itself when she watches him. 

“He certainly is good at playing people. “ Ned tells her one night over supper. 

“Do I even want to know what he’s going on about now?” Sansa asks him, sounding tired. 

Ned sighs, 

“He’s going on about Robert’s poor health. Keeps asking me if I think Joffrey could handle ruling on his own now, or if he needs a regent.”

Sansa reaches out and grabs her father by the arm. 

“Don’t take his bait,” she says through gritted teeth. “He tricked you with that before, and betrayed you, making you look a traitor.”

It likely wouldn’t work now anyway, Joffrey’s older than then, and in fact, he is about to come of age officially. 

Joffrey comes of age, so of course, there has to be a celebration. Word goes out of a tourney King Robert is putting on, with seven straight days of events, with a dance at the end of the week. 

Littlefinger comes up with the money, of course. 

The guests begin to arrive very soon before the event, and Sansa sticks closely to her father as they watch them. 

There’s a few she recognizes, Sam’s sister Talla for one, but most of them are women from southern houses she’s not too familiar with.

When she sees Margaery Tyrell among them, she smiles and sighs inwardly. She really will have to find a way to warn her of Joffrey’s nature. 

“Strangely enough, I feel like she might truly be able to handle him if she is properly prepared. She always knew exactly how to make people react to her the way she wanted.”

“Do you consider her a friend?”

“I...don’t actually know,” Sansa admits, “She’s extremely manipulative, but her manipulations tended to make things better for everyone. I don’t know what her opinions on things actually were, and I don’t know what she really wanted out of life.”

“If she’s as canny as you say, perhaps we should try and convince her to marry Robb.”

Sansa snorts. 

“Robb’s too much like you. She would eat him alive.”

And to double the fun, Stannis and Renly both also come for the celebration. 

Even on the sidelines, Sansa can watch as her father’s stress levels skyrocket with the three brothers in the same room. 

Sansa is overjoyed at two of the accompanying faces though. Among the small group of guards Renly brings with him is Lady Brienne. And he brought Shireen with him as well, wanting her to see the royal court. 

It’s heartwarming, her seeing her father after nearly three years too. Watching him happily embrace the girl, Sansa nearly forgets her end. 

Shireen’s thirteen now, as old as she was when she was burned. 

She greets Sansa eagerly though, 

“Ser Davos told me about you in the letters he wrote me from Winterfell. It’s been a while though, I should write and tell him I miss him.” 

The lack of contact from Davos has her terribly worried, but Sansa can’t let that on. Shireen switches subjects quickly enough though.

“I’ve never been to one of these tourneys though, you’ll have to walk me through it.”

And there is little enough enjoyment in Sansa’s life, so she takes it in stride. 

Shireen sits with her during the jousts and melee, and Sansa tries to explain everything to her. There’s no bloodshed this time, even the Mountain manages to restrain himself. He still makes her stomach turn even by standing around though. 

She helps Shireen with her gown for the dance too. Her own dress is soft pink and decorated with rosettes. It’s a bit childish for a woman of sixteen, but she doesn’t want to catch anyone’s eye. 

It nearly works. 

She stays close to Shireen as she watches the others gather and dance. 

King Robert is already drinking heavily. He still looks quite yellow, and his abdomen is beginning to swell. It’s obvious to many of the onlookers that he is not well, but he seems to be enjoying himself.

Joffrey’s on his best behavior, as she remembers him being at the tourney back before. Margaery Tyrell has maneuvered a place on his arm with expertise, and her sweet, loud voice and perfect manners keep him in line. Cersei is already skulking behind them, consumed, but no one is paying her any mind tonight. It’s nearly time for the crown prince to be married of course. 

Sansa dances a few times, once with Shireen to help her overcome her shyness. Many of the others balk at her face, but there are few enough young men here for her to dance with anyhow. Sansa dances once with Tommen as well, before handing him off to Shireen as well, both of them walking onto the dance floor clumsily. 

They still think they’re cousins, Sansa thinks to herself, watching them. 

“No one catching your eye?”

Sansa’s blood freezes in her veins at the sound of Littlefinger’s voice. 

“I know they say I’m grown, but I still feel so young,” she insists. 

“Nonsense. You’re the spitting image of your mother when she was wed. All those many years ago” his voice is dripping with something, and with a start, Sansa realizes he’s been drinking, and desperately wishes to get away. He stares off into space for a moment, and Sansa takes the chance to stand and bolt. 

She’s lucky enough to bump into Lord Tyrion at the table, refilling his wine goblet. He barely has a chance to open his mouth before she grabs his hand. 

“Dance with me,” she says commandingly. 

When he tries to gesture at his wine goblet, she rolls her eyes. 

“You can’t be that drunk, you’re still standing. You’re an expert at it after all.”

She pulls him onto the dance floor and spies Littlefinger’s head lolling, belying that he was a bit drunker than she thought. 

“Thank you. If I wasn’t careful, I feared Lord Baelish over there was going to forget I’m not actually my mother.”

Sansa’s grown a bit in King’s Landing, nearly her full height, and she supposes the two of them must make a comical pair. She hears a few snickers from the crowd, and it lights a fire of anger in her. 

“Don’t give them the satisfaction,” she tells him through clenched teeth. 

“Coming to the aid of your hero of the evening?” he asks, words dripping with sarcasm.

She feels her nostrils flare before she answers. 

“Not all heroes are tall and gallant. Not all maidens are sweet and fair.” she spares Littlefinger another glance, “And not all monsters have horns and teeth.”

Winterfell 

It’s in the second year that the wildling refugees begin to trickle in more quickly. Most of them come south on boats, or via Eastwatch-by-the-sea. Not many are making it through the wall. Winterfell can only take so many, so ravens come and go to have them moved around. 

It’s decided that only the children and least hostile can be allowed to stay in the keeps and serve. There have already been fights breaking out at the Last Hearth and Deepwood Motte involving the ones who have been serving there. Many have already ended up in chains.

The ones who fight the most, are the ones Robb decides to send to the Dreadfort. He calls to seek guards and swordsmen to accompany them. 

“I am reminding you that these men are not prisoners who may sit idle. They will train to defend the north along with us and to fortify us for the winter to come.”

Catelyn nods with approval at his words. Sansa’s suggestion of allowing the free folk to settle in the Gift sits in the back of her mind. It’s a good idea, but the Gift is under control of the Night’s Watch, and word from the wall ranges from confusion to hostility towards their action. 

And getting word to or from the wall has been becoming more and more difficult. The long time gaps between getting word from Davos eats at them all. 

It’s enough that Bran sends one of his ravens, Quinta, the smallest, to try and find them.

“They fled Castle Black. Mormont is still nominally in charge and seems willing to listen, but there’s dissent and mutiny all over. Many will disregard any of his orders, and raiding parties have been attacking on the regular,” Bran tells them, when Quinta makes her journey. 

“Where are they even going?” Robb wants to know. If the Night’s Watch goes against their goals, it could be disastrous. 

Mid-year, the first group of the refugees are set to be moved to the Dreadfort. And they need to see how they are working out. 

Arya’s pile of faces is small, but versatile. There’s that first wildling man she killed in the woods. A serving woman who passed after being kicked by a horse. A young wildling girl who died soon after reaching Winterfell of speckled fever. It’s enough. She’s confident enough. 

And so she volunteers. 

There’s yelling of course, and wheedling. But no one else has the skill to blend in like she has. 

The night before their set to leave, Arya goes to find Gendry in the forge. When he sees her, he drops his tools. 

They sit on the bench, and he holds her so tightly she wonders if she might break. 

“I don’t like it,” Gendry whispers into her hair, “Not just the you putting yourself into danger thing, the part where you’re going to have to go among prisoners like we did on the way to Harrenhal.”

Arya laughs roughly. 

“At least I know how to do it. Curse, spit, keep to myself. Hope that that wildling I killed is intimidating enough that I don’t have to fight too many of them to make them leave me be.”

She reaches and touches his neck gently. 

“I learned plenty about how to be a grouchy loner from you.”

They lean together and kiss, far more tenderly than they have since before. The fire in Arya’s belly that has started to spark back to life roars momentarily, and it takes all her strength to drag herself away. 

In the morning, they all gather in Catelyn’s chambers to quietly say goodbye. She gets hugs from everyone, so many it feels like a lineup. 

“Do me a favor?” she asks Meera, “Don’t let Gendry stay in the forge alone all the time. He turns into a right proper bastard if you don’t make him be social.”

That earns her a chuckle. 

When she reaches Gendry, Arya thinks she can feel her mother’s eyes bore through the back of her head, watching them together. She wonders if there’s going to end up being fights over this. 

“You’ll be careful right? Well as much as you know how anyhow.” Gendry’s keeping his voice even, but she can hear the fear. 

“Be a real shame to end this run before the end wouldn’t it?”

She makes everyone watch as she dons her face. Despite the looks of horror from all of them, she needs them to know. The wildling is an ugly fucker, with broken teeth and hands that seem to be made entirely of scars. No one will see Arya Stark, even if she acts a bit like herself.

She slips among the prisoners, in her leg irons, and grumbles and spits perfectly in character.

Bran has sent all his ravens out before the end of the year. Una, Dosa, Tresn, Quatri, Quinta, Suxen and Septima. All of them have made their journeys. It’s a good distraction for him, from worrying about his sisters while he’s still at home.

Septima is the one who makes the first journey all the way over the wall. She hadn’t been able to learn anything useful, as Bran had been wary of having her fly too close and be noticed in a land where wargs are known to be a very real thing, but still. She made it. 

And so, near the end of the year, Bran gets ambitious. 

“You really think she can make it all the way to Essos?” Jojen asks him. 

“I know she can make it,” Bran insists, ruffling Septima’s feathers. “I’m more worried about her getting back or getting lost. “

“What is there to find in Essos?”

There’s a long pause. 

“Oh, right, you told me about the dragon queen.”

Bran rubs Septima’s head one last time, before letting her go. He remembers, vividly, even as his other visions fade, of the dive that Daenarys had taken into the valley in the Wolfswood that had been overwhelmed by the wights of an ancient battlefield, ready to march upon a whole mountainside filled with clan villages.

The dragonfire had taken them out, but the forest went up in flames, and the queen along with it. Fire may not be able to kill a dragon, but it’s hard to stay on the back of one when it’s surrounding you. 

“So much of what happens during and after could be altered completely by her, but we don’t really know anything that happened to her, or could have changed.”

Bran watches Septima take flight, before turning to Jojen. 

“Come on, it’s almost suppertime.”

Jojen tilts his head in one direction. 

“You should go get Meera. I told her about a vision I had last night, and I think I must have upset her. She went off into the glass garden by herself, and I haven’t seen her come out.”

Confused as to what sort of vision could have upset her that Jojen also wouldn’t have told the rest of them about, Bran takes his advice. 

The glass gardens were built over one of the hot springs that ran closest to the surface. It kept the ground warm well through winter, and allowed for a well that drew up fresh water just where it was needed, cooled by the air. It housed all sorts of plants, vegetables, fruit and flowers. Though now that winter was coming, the only ornamental plants left were a single bush of blue roses by one of the doors. Every other inch of space is taken up by cascading plants in pots and troughs, and barrels, vines twisting up poles to the ceiling, spaced neatly to walk between.

He finds Meera, sitting on the ground between a barrel overflowing with yam vines and a trough full of winter greens. 

“Hey,” he starts, sitting carefully beside her, laying his cane on the ground. There’s barely enough room for them both. “You’ll miss supper.”

She says, “It’s fine,” and is silent for a bit, so he continues, “What did Jojen tell you about?”

“Just that father’s ill again. That injury he took at the Tower of Joy never really healed and sometimes it flares up and causes him pain. And it wasn’t really that, I just needed some time to myself.”

Meera stretches out on her back as so to have more room, and plays with the end of a potato vine. She’s told him before that she likes the glass gardens, because fresh food is so important to the way of life in the Neck. He remembers her telling him before about how the swamps would drown anything in the ground that wasn’t rice, and how someone in her grandfather’s day had figured out that some vegetables could be grown in piles of straw upon the boats and crannogs. 

“I like it out here,” she adds, as though reading his mind, “It’s always warm. I can’t concentrate, or sleep for that matter, when I’m cold. It makes my mind think it needs to be constantly on alert.”

He lays out beside her. It’s easy in this position, to realize how much he’s grown, he’s taller than her now. Rather than improve it though, the disparity between the length of his legs has only gotten worse with his growth, and it has become clear that the bone hasn’t healed properly, and even with the metal bits Gendry has hammered into his shoes, he still walks with one leg duck-footed.

“I wanted to take you home,” she blurts out at one point, “After everything was done. The swamp ground is too dangerous to walk very far, so we use boats a lot. You don’t need your legs to row, and we could prop you up if you needed it, and I thought…”

Her words drift off, and he lets her be. Part of him feels like he’s already been to the Neck just from the stories she has told him. 

“Look,” she says, interrupting her previous words, pointing at the glass ceiling, “It’s snowing.”

It is, and the snowflakes falling on the glass roof are beautiful. Lying back and watching, he is transported back to the nights in the cave when the Raven would let him go free, and they would lay in the dark, talking about anything and everything. 

He feels Meera’s head brush his shoulder softly, and he remembers all of her stories. About how she speared her first frog when she was five. How the slender, three pronged spear was actually called a gig, but calling it that elsewhere made people look at her like she was stupid. How she hated mushrooms because they tasted like cold, late winter foraging. 

How in the world could he have ever given this up?

With that thought, he suddenly jerks upward, and rubs his eyes, realizing he must have fallen asleep. Meera’s head slips, and he hears her yawn, and realizes she must have drifted off as well. 

And with a start, mirrored by her sitting up and suddenly stiffening, realizes it’s become very dark, and is probably pretty late. 

“Go,” he says, shoving the side of her arm, “I’ll stay out a little longer. If anyone wonders why, I’ll just say I wanted to check on Septima. I think I’ll actually do that anyway.”

“You actually sent her to Essos?” Meera asks, standing. 

He nods. She moves to leave, and looks back at him just once. 

The air between them is thick. 

Bran lets his mind slide into Septima’s, just long enough to see her flying true towards the Narrow Sea, wondering what she will find on the other side. 

Over the Wall

“So you’re actually some sort of chosen one? Maybe you really were just being stupidly honorable and not just stupid when you didn’t cut off my head. I was actually wondering before if maybe you were really awful with your sword and had just missed…”

It’s the end of the day, and Jon is really beginning to tire of Ygritte’s nattering. It’s been her go to activity since they joined with Rowan. 

It’s been months they’ve been at it. Walking through the snow, foraging for food, and sleeping in caves that Rowan seems to be able to find the locations of with the drop of a head. 

Her story, that he was some kind of prince that was promised, and that the knowledge she hoped to pass to him would help defeat the Night King and the army of the dead. It was outlandish, but here he was, following along. 

“Are we nearly there?” he asks Rowan, hoping to interrupted Ygritte’s spiel. They’re still walking, but it’s nearly time to stop to eat. Gilly’s baby, whom she still hasn’t decided on a name for, is beginning to get fussy. 

“The illusion of the last weirwood should be easy enough to come by,” Rown assures, and then they continue on walking. 

Ygritte sidles up to him as they walk. She had taken the whole abduction thing in stride, commenting that she was always up for an adventure. 

“Still not taking me up on my offer? It’s still an offer if you do, most women would love the chance to fuck a chosen one.”

She hasn’t let up on that either. And honestly, it’s hard to keep telling her no. She’s not traditionally pretty, to be sure, but she’s full of life, and that means a lot. And in this shared experience of shared abduction, they might almost be becoming friends. 

But he does have how vows, even though he hasn’t seen Castle Black in nearly a year. 

“Still no.”

She shakes her head. 

“Maybe you’ll change your mind once we’re not moving all the time. You’ll be less beat.”

Ahead of them, he sees Gilly stop short and make a noise. Rowan rushes up beside her, at the edge of a ridge, and hears her deep, wise voice say, 

“We’ve arrived.”

Over the ridge is the biggest weirwood tree Jon has ever seen. The sun breaks through the clouds behind it, making it’s red, five pointed leaves look as though they are afire. 

“Step carefully,” Rowan cautions. “This ground is very old.”

They follow her lead.

They don’t get very far before the land is disturbed, and the first figure bursts through the snow. 

The only of them who is truly unarmed is Gilly, so they try and put her to the middle of them. Jon still clings to Longclaw, which Rowan had looked at approvingly. When they’d passed through an abandoned village, Ygritte had managed to scavenge herself an axe. The fact that Jon trusts her with it when he sleeps is a testament to how bizarre this whole thing has become. The other women carry a multitude of scavenged and improvised weaponry, from Jyna’s heavy cooking pan down to Henneh’s fireplace poker. 

Jon takes out one, and beside him, Henneh knocks down a few others. It seems almost workman like, especially when Rowan reaches under her cloak to retrieve the small, ignitable projectiles that actually keep the wights down. 

Rowan steps in front of the group, 

“This way,” she tells them, leading them to an opening in the base of the tree.

“Once we’re all down here,” she says, letting Gilly come down first, “They won’t be able to get to us.”

Jon holds back, and lets the others go first, knocking down every wight that gets near. It’s just him and Ygritte, when he hears her hollar, “Duck!” and listens without a second thought.

Unfortunately, the wight that swung from behind at him knocks Ygritte just hard enough for her to stumble and hit her head against the trunk of the tree. She staggers a bit and Jon grabs her by the hand tugs her into the cave. 

When they’re safely inside, he notes there’s a bit of blood dripping from her scalp.

“What is this place?” he asks Rowan. 

“This used to be the last stand of the Children of the Forest. Now it is a crypt, but it will do enough for shelter for the time.”

They all step inside, getting their bearings. Jon stops to ask Ygritte, 

“Is your head alright?”

She nods, but is looking at him strangely. Her brow is furrowed, and it takes her a long moment before her words come. 

“Jon,” she starts, her voice strangely soft. There’s not a mocking bit in her voice at all, and she rarely misses a chance to call him by his full name. “Jon, I don’t think I’m supposed to still be alive.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This last year got away from me. Next chapter with be King's Landing concurrently, and more from over the wall.

**Over the Wall**

Jon would have never believed he would miss Ygritte busting his chops. Ever since they’d reached the cave she had been nearly sedate. If he hadn’t seen her receive her wound, he would think the blow to the head had been much more severe than he had thought. 

The cave is safe, and warm enough (but not really warm at all). Jyna manages to get a small fire going at the mouth. Rowan finds them food (as much as that green moss could be considered food). And they all spend a few days recovering from their journey. 

The first night, over their meager meal, Gilly sits by his side, feeding her son, and he finally asks her how the all of them ended up with Rowan at all. 

“Did anyone tell you about us? Any of the crows?”

Jon shakes his head. He’d overheard a bit about what they called Craster’s Keep, but didn’t really understand what it was. 

Gilly takes a deep breath, and launches into her story. About her father’s...peculiarities. The sharp intake of Jon’s breath brings a flush of something over Gilly’s face that he can’t quite identify, but she doesn’t stop her story. She tells him about her most recent pregnancy, and about what Craster would do to her child if he were born a boy.

“I couldn’t let that happen. So when I could stand again, I grabbed him and staggered out into the forest.”

She had hidden, still bleeding and exhausted, for three days. After those three days, she had found one of Rowan’s caves, and found herself face to face with a creature she had only heard of in stories.

“I told her what my father would do to my child. And she took my hand and asked if I was willing to help her. That if I did, it would not only protect my babe, but thousands of others as well.”

She spoke of Rowan leading her back to her home in the dead of night, giving her a poultice of herbs similar to the one they’d used on Jon and Ygritte to use on her father, and helped her wake and lead her sisters from the shack.

It hadn’t been hard, she said. Though none of them had ever had the bravery to flee before, they had all hoped somehow she would make it away. 

And with their father in a drugged stupor, all of them had lit fire to the keep. Nearly everything in it was wood, aged and dry. Rowan had provided the spark, from the strange sort of orb she’d conjured, and in the dry wintery wind, it had gone up in seconds. 

Her story takes most of the night, but it’s not like theirs much else to do. All they seem to have now is time.

And in that time, Jon finally finds the time to ask Rowan some of the dozens of questions that have spent the past year 

“What is this place?” is the first. 

“This cave used to be known as the cave of the three-eyed Raven,” 

Jon flinches at the memory of what his sisters had once called Bran. His eyes follow Rowan’s gaze, which lands on a spot on the inside wall that is littered with twisted tree roots. 

“It was once the home of the last remaining alive of my people. Now it’s just me, and now it’s just a cave. But it also holds the last bits of our magic and culture. And our last hope.”

Rowan had gazed out the opening of the cave, over the hillside. 

“Even the weirwood above is merely one of our wards, the last things to protect this place.”

Her eyes suddenly take on a deep, faraway sadness. It’s like the one Jon once saw on his own sisters’ faces, but heavier, more lasting. 

“The last greenseer once led your cousin, Brandon Stark, here, in the hopes of passing on his skill and knowledge, in the hope that it would be enough to stop the rise of the Night King.”

“It wasn’t enough?” Jon asks, with a note of darkness to his voice. 

Rowan shakes her head. 

“It was never enough. Brandon Stark was a child, ill-prepared. Brynden Rivers was human once, but he hadn’t been human in a long time, and I believe he had truly forgotten what it meant.”

That fits perfectly with the what the girls had said had happened to Bran. They had seemed very disturbed to speak of it. 

“Brynden Rivers’ powers gave him an entire view of humanity, of it’s past and present, but sometimes it’s future as well. I don’t feel that all of that was necessary.”

“If you…” Jon cuts himself off, “If you don’t think that needed to happen, then why am I here?”  
Rowan waits a time before answering. 

“As a child of the forest, I have certain abilities that protected me. As the rest of my people died around me, I slunk off and hid. This is just one cave, but the deeper you go, you will find more and more. All of this land, in fact, beyond the wall, is connected. I can cross the frozen landscape without ever seeing the sun. And so, while my people were slaughtered, I hid.”

Her eyes bear witness to her shame. Jon can only imagine, having everyone you knew, everyone you loved, wiped out so wholly. To truly be the last of your race. She should be proud, he muses, to have survived, to still be alive, but it must be so lonely. 

“After what happened, I began practicing, stretching what magic I knew I could still use. It’s not much in the grand scheme of things, but I had a few tricks left. So I built a plan, something that I thought might give you all a second chance. 

The children of the forest aren’t bound by time like humans. Sometimes we live very long lives, lives that you would call generations. And in my life, I learned to pull the land back with me. So I used that, I pulled it back. I pulled it back far enough that humanity would have a chance.”

“But..but if you just pulled the land back, how come it’s not just you who remembers? Why do my siblings too?”

He won’t call them his cousins. Though they may be what they are, it’s not what they are to him.

“Jon Snow, have you ever pulled a piece of fabric? Have you ever pulled it as far as it would pull? What happens?”

Jon tries to picture her words. He imagines a piece of clothing stretched too long, pulled desperately onto someone it no longer fits. 

“It tears.”

Rowan nods.

“What I did took a toll. The magic we have is deeply tied to the land of this world. And bits that are the closest to the old world- such as the swamps you call the Neck, and for that matter, even this cave too- took the brunt, and when I pulled, holes formed. And where there is a hole, things can travel through.”

Jon is silent for a time, trying to wrap his head around her words. While he mostly feels like a gaping fish, he notes that Rowan’s gaze has moved to where Ygritte sits, silently. 

“What about her?”

Rowan frowns, her ears drooping. 

“Like I said, my magics are not great, and I cannot speak to all of the effects it might have. Perhaps it had something to do with her wound, perhaps it was because she came into contact with where the weirwood stood. Perhaps it was even a side effect of the wards on this place. “

She nods in her Ygritte’s direction when she stirs. 

“But if you want to hear her story, I suggest that you ask her.”

Later in the evening, when the fire begins to burn down to embers, Jon takes Rowan’s advice. He sits beside her and offers her a bowl of that awful green moss. She takes it without a word.  
He doesn’t even have to prompt her. 

“You said you would never betray me, and you left. And I swore I would kill you. And I tried, and I couldn’t. We stared at each other, but couldn’t kill each other. So some little fucker came and did it for you.”

Jon silently dwells on her words. She reaches and takes his hand, with surprising tenderness. There’s no mockery in her words. 

“If they hadn’t taken us, we’d have gone back to Mance Ryder’s camp, halfway on the way there.”

“We aren’t though,” Jon insists, “We’re here.”

Ygritte raises an eyebrow in Rowan’s direction. 

“Has she told you why we’re here?”

“A bit.”

“Has she told you why you?”

Rowan had used words, big words, about Jon. Those words had been on the way here, and have seemed to nearly disappear now that they’ve arrived. 

“No, but I’ll ask her. She said we’ll start tomorrow, start with whatever it is she wants to teach me.”

Ygritte rubs her thumb along his hand. 

“It better not be because you’re pretty. Because I still saw you first.”

**Winterfell**

Autumn has turned starkly cold. The streams in the wolfswood have begun to freeze. 

Arya returns home after the start of the year. She returns with many things. Names of wildlings within the walls who seem to have influence over the others (Tormund is among them, she had discovered. While she is sad he won’t recognize her, she knew he was never a kneeler). Names of guards who probably should be reassigned (She’d given them to the warden before leaving, with a few sickening details). And a dozen or more stories of death at the hands of the wights.

And a desperate desire to wear her own face again.

It was strange really, she’d never felt very possessive of her own face. She never thought it was all that great. But after months of wearing the face of a man twice her age who apparently liked to pick fights, she just wants to be Arya Horseface again.

“Did we ever get word from Davos?” she asks anxiously once she’s greeted, and settled with everyone back at Winterfell. There’s venison for supper, and she gobbles it down. It tastes amazing after weeks of jerky and foraging. 

Robb nods solemnly, and Arya is suddenly apprehensive at his answer. 

“When he and Osha made it to Castle Black, the mutiny had already tipped off. Jeor Mormont is dead, and Alliser Thorne has taken control. They wouldn’t listen to a word Davos tried to tell them. “

“I sent Una after you left to find them.” Bran interjects, “Davos sent word to his second eldest son, and he set sail North. They’re trying to evacuate those they can south via sea.”

Arya is alarmed.

“The Watch at Eastwatch-by-the-sea patrols the sea looking for wildlings trying to sail south!”

“And Davos was a smuggler.” Robb tells her, “If anyone can evade the sea patrols, it would be him. And besides, Father always said the East Watch was a bit more lax than the others.”

She tells him of the talk she heard from the men and women within the Dreadfort. They’d taken to calling Robb the Young Wolf. And even though they still spat at calling him a king (which he wasn’t, she reminded some of them a few times) they at least seemed accepting that he wanted to stop the dead as much as they did. 

“They may not have kings over the wall,” Arya tells him, “But they pick who will lead them, and they feel they know a good leader when they see one.”

“That still feels like a compliment I don’t deserve.”

Arya smiles and shakes her head, “Can you imagine them meeting King Robert?”

There’s laughter all around. 

After supper finishes, she leaves to the forge to have a proper reunion with Gendry. Despite Meera’s best efforts, she told Arya he was still skipping meals. 

He’s alone, and so when she sees him, obviously the best course of action is to tackle him. He’s off guard enough that she still can. She’s near all grown now, her head reaching his chin, and she doesn’t want him getting cocky. 

When his back hits the floor, she rests her elbows on his chest and props herself up on them.

“Miss me?”

His eyes are tender despite the sting of his back hitting the floor. His lazily throws an arm across her back. 

“More than you could imagine.”

After a bit, during which she sneaks back to the Great Hall and brings him some proper food, she asks him how everyone else has been holding up. 

“Bran’s raven got back from Essos two moons ago. She made it fine, but he can’t navigate the land easily because he doesn’t know it. Him and Jojen keep pouring over books trying to figure it out. “

Arya nods, “I can help him with Braavos, but beyond that I’m no more use.”

“Rickon’s been spending nearly all his time with the wildling children. You’d think he was one.”

“That’s nothing new” 

“He did manage to lodge an arrow all the way to the top of one of the ramparts the other day.”

“Oh, I’m almost sad I missed that.”

“Meera and I spent a long time trying to figure out how to get it down, but when everyone left, she just climbed up and pulled it down herself.”

“She doesn’t like climbing in front of Bran, she thinks it makes him feel bad.”

“I also heard Johnna and Willa arguing the other day about which of them gets to steal him.”

Oh, that might be a much bigger problem. 

“Don’t they know….”

Gendry nods grimly. 

“Right after you left, one of the wildlings working down in town tried to steal one of the kitchen girls. It ended with him with a broken jaw and one of the men who intervened losing a hand. “

At least no one had died. When Arya had left, she had thought that most of the women in Winterfell were cautious of the wildlings because of the stories of their cultural rituals. 

“Robb made it terribly clear that we do not steal brides in this land, but I fear the girls might have just assumed that meant we stole husbands instead.”

This was going to be a fun one to undo. Both of the girls like Arya, so she might be able to break it to them.

“Also, you’re mother’s been giving me talking-tos lately. You should go spend some time with her.”

He doesn’t tell her that Lady Catelyn had pretty much tipped him over and shaken him loose as soon as Arya wasn’t near. 

She had interrogated him as to near everything; his prospects, his dreams, his name. 

“I like my work well enough. I could see spending my life doing it.”

“I understand you’ve learned yourself to be of royal blood, baseborn or not. Haven’t you ever thought of pursuing anything higher?”

Gendry grimaces. His younger self would have wanted nothing more. To have a name, a stake. To have something to offer. To show the world he was more than a bastard.

“I used to, but anymore...I have a skill, a skill I am good at. Your daughter doesn’t need me to have a name, she has one, one she’s terribly proud of. She knows her worth, and I know mine.”

Catelyn had studied his face, and found no dishonesty in his words. She can’t admit it out loud, she even scarcely can to herself, that she’s seeking in Gendry the same ambition she so feared in Jon. But she finds none.

She tries to keep this in mind in the following moons after her younger daughter returns home. 

They are going over the paperwork together again. 

“Food’s going to be a problem,” Arya comments, “We’ve been setting aside plenty, but with the influx of new people everything’s going to be stretched tight.”

“We may have to import, from the Reach likely, or perhaps Dorne. Your sister’s friendship with Princess Myrcella may curry us some favor.”

It seems ridiculous, Arya thinks, that something as necessary as food stores was put aside as ‘women’s work’. 

There’s a bit of silence, before Catelyn asks her daughter.

“I suppose you’re approaching the age at which you married before.”

“Not quite yet, I think I was eighteen by then, I definitely wasn’t any younger than seventeen.”

“Well it is nearly four months passed your fifteenth name day. You were gone then.”

Arya suddenly pays attention to her mother’s tone. 

“I had a cloak made for you then, but I can wait to give it to you.”

Arya had a creeping feeling she knows where this conversation is going. 

“Mother, that’s redundant. We married properly before, in the Godswood. Ser Davos was there…”

“And no one else was.” Catelyn says, “And despite what you say, people will talk if you don’t follow certain customs...“

As if Arya had ever cared about other people talking, and their customs. Then again, 

“...And none of us got to be there the first time.”

Catelyn reaches out and rubs Arya on the shoulders. 

“You’re my daughter. I’d like to see you wed.”

She sighs deeply. She can’t fight her on that.

“It doesn’t have to be fancy, it can just be family. We’ll do it before the end of the year, the day of the last harvest feast. “

The last harvest feast hangs over the year. It gets dark earlier and earlier in the day, and on even the clear days the wind howls through the trees. The streams are frozen and the snow heavy, and the woods have gone quiet. Arya and Meera sometimes join the men on their hunting parties, but every time they return to Winterfell more and more empty handed. Winter might as well be already here.

Everyone trains more. Arya had begun insisting that Robb let her practice with her sword with both him and Theon. The dead will not go easy on them. The weapons stock hold grows. More and more wildlings trickle in, and must be accommodated.

At least, she thinks, once her and Gendry are married properly and will actually be expected to share a bed, there will be one more room to go around. 

“It won’t be so bad,” Gendry muses when the morning comes, “At least you’ll have proper family here this time.”

“You just say that because you’re glad the Hound isn’t here.”

“Well he did find reason to call me a twat every other sentence.”

‘That doesn’t make you special. He called everyone a twat.”

Arya’s wearing the blue dress Sansa made her all those years ago. It fits like a glove now. 

“Sansa’s going to kill me. She was mad enough she missed it the first time.”

And Father too, she thinks. 

Everyone else in the household is bustling about with preparations for the harvest feast. The buck the hunters had returned with two days prior is being roasted, and everyone else runs to and fro with other foods, and furniture and all the other necessities, to notice the small group approaching the sept. 

Meera’s the one who approaches with her cloak. It’s her old one, too short and worn. It will do for her maiden cloak. Meera’s also wearing the dress Sansa started for her all that time ago. 

“Mother finished it? It looks nice.”

Meera fusses with the skirt. 

“I guess it was too much to hope it was forgotten. I don’t know how to sit down in it.”

Arya laughs. 

“You can kind of tuck it under. Be glad it doesn’t need a petticoat, I still never figured out how to manage those.”

They walk into the sept side by side. Arya pulls at her own sleeves. 

“Sansa was so close about my size. I can’t believe it. Yours looks like it fits perfect too.”

“I was basically already grown when we left home. I guess anyway, that’s what people say. I don’t feel grown.”

“Neither do I, “ Arya adds, glancing inside the sept, where the old Septon stands, having arrived from the village that morning. Her siblings and mother have lined up, and Gendry stands at the front. Despite everything, her heart still skips a beat. She’s about to marry, a second time, but inside she still feels like a girl half the time.

The candles are lit, and the seven prayers said, and the seven blessings. Robb removes her cloak, and Gendry wraps her in the new one her mother made, thick and lined with fur. 

The septon wraps their hands in the cloth, and they say the words and kiss, and everyone claps. 

Five seconds later, Arya asks, “So can we all go eat now?”

Mother has respected her wishes to keep things quiet. The feast goes on as usual. There’s venison and pies and all sorts of food. This will be the last time of true abundance before winter sets in. 

Robb teases her at one point over a tray of buttered carrots. 

“You’re just happy to have escaped all the ceremony a marriage usually entails.”

“Exactly,” she tells him, “No fuss, no fancy gown, no bedding ceremony for me.”

“You know that once the word gets out, most of the household will assume you’re already with child.”

Arya winces, and says rather forcefully, 

“No. I’m not doing that. No children for me, at least until this is all over.”

Her voice thins, at the idea of a babe born during the long night. 

“If she’s scared of one of us having a bastard, it’s not going to be me.”

Their interrupted by Gendry standing up, and reaching for her hand. 

“Well, it seems I am at least being forced to dance at my wedding,” she tells Robb when Gendry pulls her to her feet. 

Bran sits on the edge of the dancefloor, watching everyone. Robb’s being passed around to what must be each woman in the village. Rickon is being pulled on each arm by Johnna and Willa. Even Jojen’s been pulled out, by the kennel master’s youngest daughter. 

He was never one much for dancing, but it would be a lie to say he doesn’t feel like he’s missing out. Only mother sits at the head of the high table, alone. 

“Not much for dancing myself,” Meera tells him when she approaches, handing him a cup of cider. It warms him, but doesn’t make his head as fuzzy as ale or wine. 

“I saw the white raven pass King’s Landing today,” he tells her. Suxn had been returning with a letter from Sansa, “Winter’s weeks away.”

“I guess this will be the last celebration for a while.”

The silence between them is bordering on melancholy. After a long moment, Bran asks her, 

“Want to get out of here?”

They end up back in the glass gardens again, though it’s a long walk by the back of the keep. It’s neither the first nor the last time. It’s functioned much like the Godswood in the last life, but Bran lacks the three-eyed-Raven’s resistance to the cold. They both sit on the ground to the front, slowly. Meera mutters softly that her dress is taking up too much space.

“It’s too close,” Meera admits, “I hate the idea of seeing one of those blue eyed fuckers again, but it just keeps getting closer.”

“We’re prepared, as much as we can be. And like I said, they shouldn’t be able to get over the wall yet.”

Meera shrugs, but doesn’t seem all that mollified. 

“It’s nice to see Jojen having fun again,” she comments, thinking back to him dancing with the kennel-master’s daughter, “He’s spent too much of his life thinking about it ending.”

“I think all of us spend too much of our lives doing that.”

It’s a clear night, and there’s starlight peeking through the glass.

They were talking, and then they weren’t. They weren’t even touching, and then suddenly, they were kissing. If asked, neither of them would be certain which of them moved first. 

Meera’s lips were soft, and she makes a soft laughing noise deep in her throat that goes straight to Bran’s heart. When they part for a moment, it explodes out of her, and he finds it infectious. She rests her forehead on his as they both laugh. 

“We’ll be missed if we stay too long,” she says. 

“Yes...yes we will,” Bran agrees, his hands finding hers, and then reaching to touch the side of her face. 

“But not quite yet?” He asks, and she nods, still giggling.

Winter has come, he thinks, and they must find ways to stay warm. 

The white raven comes two days later, to a solemn breakfast table. 

And two more days later, the regular raven. 

Robb reads the message with a grave face. All the others are frozen, waiting. 

“King Robert is dead,” he tells them. 

Everyone is silent, in remembrance. Arya’s stomach flip flops. Bran wonders what it will mean for Father and Sansa. 

And Catelyn maintains her face, ever the lady.


	16. Chapter 16

**Over the Wall**

Several moons into that year, Rowan stills in the middle of a sentence, and quietly says, 

“I think we have a visitor.”

The visitor, causing Jon’s heart to leap into his throat with joy, turns out to be Ghost. Ghost, dragging a dead doe at that. Ygritte attacks the dead animal with a knife and gusto, and they all eat terribly well for several days, Jon scratching Ghost under the muzzle and feeding him the best bits.

And Ghost is excellent for making the caves warmer at night. Sometimes, he even lets them use him as a pillow.

He even allows Ygritte to do it. She pets his head idly. 

One night, when Jon is resting his head on the opposite side of him she is, Ygritte quietly asks him. 

“I suppose it would never have worked out. We’re just too different.”

Jon doesn’t respond, but it doesn’t really feel like a question. 

“I wanted to see over the wall. I’d wanted that since I was a little girl. We saw it together. But it wasn’t enough. You still left me for them.”

“I did swear a vow.”

Ygritte exhales loudly. 

“How long were you a crow?”

Jon thinks back, remembering when he took his vow, and the start of the great ranging.

“A little over a year.”

“Do you think any of them are still looking for you?”

Jon feels his insides twist. Sam, Sam would never quit, but he could be overcome. Commander Mormont, he would never willingly leave a man behind. Pyp and Grenn…

“Maybe a few...but I suppose most of them must think I’m dead.”

Ygritte’s silent for a long time, and eventually it’s Jon who breaks it again. 

“Once whatever this is is done, I can take you over the wall again. I can show you the south.”

Ygritte sounds half asleep when she responds with, 

“That better be a promise.”

Gilly and the other women spend the days up and about, marking on bits of parchment. 

“None of us learned to read,” Gilly tells him, “But Rowan wants us to help her map the caves down here, and I can draw well enough.”

Mapping the caves is just one of the things Rowan does. Her and the others occasionally disappear for half a day, gathering something or another.

In the early days, she led him to the heart of the cave, where the corpse of the old weirwood lay, and where Rowan had planted the bulb of a new seedling. 

“This was what I was traveling further south for, to find this little babe of a tree,” she tells them, gently petting the turned earth where it will reach upward for the sun.

Jon reaches into his jumbled memories of his last night with the others.

“My brother...he said the three-eyed Raven taught him to see through the weirwoods.”

Rowan nods. 

“We fed him from the seeds of the weirwoods, and that allowed him to see through their wood. It was a poor choice.”

Jon tries to imagine Bran, who seems so small, so young, in his memory. 

“You said because he was a child.”

Rowan shakes her head softly. 

“Not just that. He was a human, and humans cannot carry the weight of the power these centuries old trunks bear. Even the humans gifted with what you call greensight are often afflicted with illness by it.”

Jon watches Rowan stand, and touch the dead roots. 

“My name is not truly Rowan. The common tongue has no word so specific for the sound a rowan tree makes when caught in a summer storm. But our language does. We call it the True Tongue. This is the tongue shared by the children of the forest, the plants and animals and the soil of the earth.”

She looks at Jon, gently, like a grandmother might. 

“The only human who is said to have ever understood the True Tongue was your ancestor Bran the Builder. He knew how to listen. This is what makes you special Jon Snow, you can speak, and you cal listen. I’m not going to teach you to see through the weirwoods, I’m going to teach you to talk to them.”

**King’s Landing**

It’s just a normal, clear, sunny-but-cold day when Sansa touches Lady on the neck and slips into her skin.

She creeps through the Red Keep, quiet as a septa, neat as a maid, not even drawing the attention of a mouse.

Not even when she winds up outside the Small Council chambers. She doesn’t linger, doesn’t want to jinx this whole thing. Stannis and Renly have both lingered, seemingly lacking will to leave their brother’s side, even as their feuds rear their heads every other day. 

It really does incense Sansa sometimes. Was this was raising her and Arya had been like, she wondered. Did Father and Mother fear that they would still be quarreling well into womanhood?

“It makes me sad,” Shireen had told her one day, out in the garden, The flowers had been dusted with snow, their petals beginning to wilt. 

“Do you like living with your uncle?” Sansa had asked.

Shireen nods, 

“He doesn’t pay a ton of attention to me, but he’s always light-hearted and up for a laugh. Father always went on and on about how irresponsible he was, but he’s always made sure I ate and went to my lessons…”

The younger girl trails off. Sansa had seen her speak kindly with Renly, and seemed happy spending time under Brienne’s guard, but she also saw the whisper of homesickness in her. 

She recognizes it with ease, having gone through plenty. 

It is Shireen she thinks of while Lady watches Renly attempt to defend his current lack of heirs. 

It isn’t fair, not really, Sansa thinks to herself. She remembers the first day at court, when she’d caught a glimpse of Renly holding Loras Tyrell’s elbow that the truth had struck her like a lightning bolt. 

Even Shireen had seen it, it seemed. 

“I don’t think he likes ladies, well not like other men do,” Shireen had told her in confidence, “He was always quite kind to Lady Brienne, and many men can’t even muster that.”

But still, it was his house duty, she thought. And Stannis, on the other hand, could always be counted on to do his duty. Which must be why he’s here tending to his brother, even as he’s shouted and raged at on the regular. 

She’s seen no sign of the red woman, to her relief. 

She pulls herself out of Lady, when she hears someone call her name. 

The voice turns out to be that of Lady Margaery, flanked behind by many of her own ladies. She is in the garden again, and Margaery is extending her hand to her. 

“My apologies, my lady,” Sansa tells her, moving to lift her skirts and stand, “I’m afraid I was somewhere else for a bit there.”

“No offense taken, Lady Sansa,” Margaery replies, her smile seeming natural, though somehow still somehow painted on. “I was merely hoping to invite you to have tea with my grandmother and I.”

Sansa smiles, and allows herself to be lead. 

She would be lying if she said she hadn’t been looking forward to see the old Queen of Thorns again. As the years had gone by, her appreciation of the acid tongue matriarch had only increased, along with her confusion as to her motives. 

“Lady Tyrell,” she says, “It’s an honor.”

“Oh, dispense with the arse-kissing if you would, I feel I’ve had more than my share being back in this city.”

Yes, that was the Olenna Tyrell that Sansa remembered. She offers her wine and cheese, and she takes lightly of both.

“So,” Sansa starts, finishing a bit of soft goat cheese, licking her thumb, “is this just for pleasure, or did the two of you want something from me?”

The older woman nodded to herself, though it was her granddaughter who spoke up first. 

“Well, you have lived here in the Red Keep for far longer than we have been at court. I imagine you’ve noticed my courtship of Prince Joffrey-”

As if anyone could miss it. Margaery was not subtle when she wanted people to notice her. As she called it ‘her courtship’, which she couldn’t imagine most proper ladies doing. 

“-and I was hoping you might tell me about him. He has seemed gracious and gallant to me, but I imagine you know as I do, that men have the same carefully constructed masks we women do.”

“And we would like some insight,” Olenna interrupts, “Into why you, a lovely young maid yourself, seem to have no interest in him yourself.”

Sansa snorts softly, then meters her voice very carefully. 

“Because he’s a jackarse that’s why. Met him years ago back home in Winterfell, first thing he did was insult my little sister.”

Her voice is casual, light. 

“He likes to slap around his younger brother and sister too. I’ve seen him leave nasty bruises on both. “

Only a small fib. Myrcella had once confessed to Sansa that Joffrey hadn’t hit her since she had learned to stop reacting. 

“Both of his uncles give him hell about it. I saw Lord Tyrion slap him once for a comment he made about my crippled younger brother. I’m rather fond of all of them, so I take their words over his. You have siblings, my lady, you must understand.”

At some point, Lady has quietly padded her way into the gardens, and sits by Sansa’s side. She pets the wolf on her head. 

“And I am very thankful that Lady here hasn’t even caught his eye, if what poor Tommen said happened to his cat wasn’t just a tantrum.”

If he had ever tried it, Sansa thought, she’s not sure she would have stopped Lady from tearing his throat out this time. 

Olenna snorts in response to her words though. 

“If you’re assessment of the prince is accurate, than I wonder why wouldn’t tried to dissuade us.”

Sansa shrugs carefully, before meeting Margaery’s eye. 

“If you think you can handle it, then who am I to tell you what to do? But you should be aware of what you’re getting into. Not just the prince, the Queen is a whole hornet’s nest herself.”

Sansa feels vaguely trapped inside. This whole game, the politics and the alliances. She had grown good at it, she knows, but she’s become so disdainful of it. 

After she finishes her cup of sweet wine, she spies Tyrion walking into the garden and sitting at one of the tables they often played cyvasse on. 

“If you’ll excuse my early exit, “ she tells Lady Olenna, standing and brushing off her dress, “Lord Tyrion beat me at cyvasse three days ago, and I believe I am owed a rematch.”

When she approaches the table, she notes Tyrion watching her out of the corner of his eye. 

“Tired already of more quality company than me?”

Sansa shakes her head. 

“Tired of being used as an unwitting informant.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow. He has the cyvasse pieces out, and is playing with them idly, though not setting them up properly. 

“Seeking advice for the courtship of my dear nephew?”

Sansa smiles wryly. She glances back over at where Margaery sits, with her immaculate hair and gown. Tyrion interrupts her gaze. 

“Seemed there was a time you would have wanted the exact place she is in now.”

Sansa laughs bitterly. 

“I did. And that wish got me nothing but heartache, abuse and suffering. I was stupid. A stupid little girl with stupid dreams who learned too slowly to even protect herself from her own mistakes.“

Thinking of her younger self, how blind and easily led she had been, nearly makes her want to retch. She shakes the memory off, as she moves to set the cyvasse pieces up. They play nearly in silence until the sun is no longer high in the sky.

“Is it so awful though?” Sansa asks, breaking the silence, in an unusually small voice, “To want to be loved, to want it so much that you let yourself be blinded?”

“No,” Tyrion replies, fiercely, “I don’t think it’s awful at all. Everyone wants to be loved, even if no one admits it. And in my experience, it’s made a great many men and women commit very foolish acts.”

She won’t say to him, won’t admit even to herself, that she’s not even sure she would know love anymore. That if it weren’t for her sister, she wouldn’t even be sure if she believed it existed anymore at all.

There’s a flush over their conversation, and Sansa feels a strange warmth bloom in her chest. One she might recognize, if she reached far enough back in her memory. 

It’s interrupted, when her father approaches, telling her it’s time for supper. 

It’s a simple potato and leek soup tonight, rich with cream and brightened bacon. Over it, Sansa hopes her father won’t bring up the subject she’s been avoiding since they arrived here nearly three years ago. 

“You seem quite fond of Lord Tyrion,” he begins, “Any particular reason why?” 

Sansa nods softly. She no longer thinks there’s a point in hiding this. 

“He was my first husband.”

Ned stares, seeming not to know which word to latch onto. Sansa chuckles. It’s really ridiculous in hindsight.

“It was Tywin Lannister’s handiwork, meant to keep control of the North. We both objected loudly, but didn’t have a leg to stand on to refuse, but we tried to be kind to each other at least.”

She swallows, bitterly. 

“I was fourteen, and in retrospect, our complete farce of a marriage was the closest thing to a reprieve I had while I was stuck here, and then…” she trails off, still unsure how to explain the next part, “I didn’t see him for nearly four years, but when we saw each other again, it was the strangest thing...it was almost like we were friends.”

Ned finally cuts her off, with a question. 

“You said he was your first-”

Sansa ducks her head, so he will not see her face. 

“My second was Ramsey Bolton. He was...not kind.

Ned’s expression of horror is all she needs. She shakes her head roughly again, changing the subject as fast as she can before more questions come.

“Anything new with the council today?”

“Stannis got a raven from the Wall,”

That gets Sansa’s complete attention. 

“Who’s in charge now?”

“Alliser Thorne,”

She groans internally. Jon’s words on the man had not been kind. Not that Jon was even there now.

“He’s asking for more men, because wildlings have been attacking the outposts regularly. They sent them to all the Lords.”

Sansa rubs her forehead. 

“And of course, Stannis is the only one to take the request seriously.”

Sansa wishes Shireen’s death wasn’t such a black mark on Stannis’s life. That his willingness to follow Melisandre so fanatically hadn’t besmirched him so. He was one of the only men in Westeros who truly seemed to consider the needs of the Realm.

Even before that, she muses, he also killed his own brother, so maybe she was being too generous. 

Stannis’s actions end up being overshadowed anyhow. 

It’s the middle of the year when Balon Greyjoy dies.

Sansa groans deeply when she learns. This is going to be a mess. She doubts Yara will be able to gather any sort of support without Theon to back her up, so somehow she thinks Euron will end up in charge again. She sends a raven, one of Bran’s that she’s been letting rest on a perch in her chambers and rest, back to Winterfell to try and see if Theon had said anything on the matter at all. 

Theon had kept Balon in line, but she doubts Euron has any sort of similar loyalty.

It distracts her though, and she blames that distraction for why she lets someone sneak up on her early the next morning, when she’s down at the training yard. 

Thankfully, it’s just Brienne.

“Didn’t take you for an archer, my lady.”

Sansa shrugs her off, 

“It’s just for fun. Daughter of one of my father’s friends was a great archer. I thought she looked so elegant doing it. So I asked her to teach me.”

Elegant is pushing it. Sansa might describe Meera in her element as having a sort of wild grace, but she’s not sure she would ever call it elegance. But she is a young woman, with thoughts only of gowns and games, and so she admires elegance.

“For fun? Pulling a longbow takes nearly a hundred pounds of force.”

Sansa laughs, trying to sound blithe. She looses her arrow, and hits the target she has set up. It hits close to the edge, but it’s set further away than she’s set them before. 

“You’re assigned to guard Lady Shireen, right? Is she about already?”

Brienne shakes her head. 

“The girl is a bit of a late sleeper, and I felt the need for some early morning air before resuming my duties.”

Sansa sets down her bow and sits on one of the brick columns that line the ends of the walkway. 

“How is she? I remember when I came here for the first time, I felt so alone.”

“She is..coping. Like she always has. She didn’t have many other young people for friends in Storm’s End, or from her stories, before either.”

Brienne frowns as she continues speaking.

“I fear she may always feel out of place just because of how she looks. I feel coming here, with all the power and attention may only make it worse.”

“This city isn’t a very good place for anyone,” Sansa ruminates, playing with the feather on the end of her bow.

What about you? She thinks, but doesn’t say. Here, Brienne looks the role of a knight, even if she will still insist she is not. She spends her days guarding a defenseless girl for no personal gain, and she will still deny it. 

And she has no idea who she would have become.

Joffrey and Margaery announce their engagement halfway through the year. Ned spends the back half of the year with his head between his hands trying to get a grasp on the plans. 

“Robert’s not going to make it to the end of the year,” he admits one day during supper. 

Sansa purses her lips as she sips her soup. 

“I didn’t think so. He looks awful.” Robert’s whole body has become swollen, and despite his famous appetite, he rarely eats anymore. 

“I can’t help but feel that planning a lavish wedding while his father dies is in poor taste.”

“He will be king,” Sansa considers, “maybe he wants his reign to start with a celebration. Or maybe Robert wants to see his eldest wed before he passes.”

Ned shakes his head. 

“I still can’t wrap my head around Joffrey being king. He doesn’t pay a lick of attention in small council meetings, and on the occasion he does, he lashes out and suggests violence for nearly every issue.”

“He will be an awful king,” Sansa agrees, “But I don’t expect he will be king long. 

He probably won’t be murdered at his wedding this time, she thinks, or at least if he is, Sansa doesn’t think she will be the tool of poison. She hasn’t received any unexpected gifts anyway. The Iron Islands are in flux, something tells her Stannis still has his doubts about Joffrey’s parentage, and Littlefinger is still manipulating things (his own wedding to Lysa has just been announced). 

And, barring all of that, Varys spoke quietly to her once about the songs of his birds from overseas. The thought of Joffrey being eaten by a dragon does give her a certain sense of satisfaction.

‘You don’t imagine Joffrey will want to keep you as his Hand though do you?” she asks out of the blue.

Ned’s words are rough, 

“I can’t imagine. The boy dislikes me, his mother dislikes me more, and they’ve both been vocal about it.”

“Perhaps, once his graces passes, then we’ll be able to go home.”

It’s the only hope they have to hold on to, as the wedding draws near. 

Sansa’s not in a good mood the day before. Aside from her general distaste for weddings, she has also just got the raven telling her that she was going to miss Arya’s...again.

Ned is at least as upset about that as she is. 

“At least there are still four more of you.” 

Sansa is quiet for a long time, then suddenly interjects, 

“Robb was married. No one was there but Mother. I don’t even remember his wife’s name. She was from Volantis, I think. None of us got to meet her. The three of them all died the same day.”

Ned reaches out and touches the back of her neck. The gown she’s dressed in for the wedding is a light gray, with long sleeves and a full skirt. She’s tall enough at seventeen that she can now look him straight in the eye. 

She stands beside him during the ceremony, and he watches her eyes drift over most of the room.

Joffrey and Margaery say their words, and Ned and Sansa try their best not to roll their eyes. 

There are performers after, but scanning the crowd, Sansa lets out a sigh of relief, seeing only one dwarf. The pigeon pie doesn’t choke anyone. 

Sansa quietly sips at her wine, and watches. 

At one point in the evening, she sees Ned take a sip from Robert’s goblet, and wince. Pycelle is accompanying the King, who is barely holding himself upright. He has not eaten or drank anything at all during the festivities. 

“I’ve never tasted anything that strong, I’m almost frightened where he found it,” Ned comments, off hand. Sansa wonders at his words. 

Time comes for the bedding. Sansa notices Shireen looking a bit apprehensive, and so grabs her hands and the two of them linger at the back of the mob of women. 

“Trust me, you don’t want a hand or eyeful of any of that,” she assures the girl.

The dancers and celebrators still linger in the hall. Sansa notices Cersei still at the high table, seemingly quite drunk. That’s a mess she wants no part of either. 

Her and Shireen sit alone, sipping lightly from one cup of wine. 

"Do you like it here at all?" Sansa finally asks her. 

Shireen shrugs. 

"I like meeting other people. I like seeing things happen even if I can't be involved. Renly told me when he was helping me get my gown and everything for the ball last year that it was a shame a girl like me had been kept from the world for so long."

"Aren't people sometimes mean to you though?"

"Of course they are, but they don't matter. Maybe in this life I'll be alone, but that's why I like my books and stories. That's I think what I'd like to do with my life. I want to write stories, whether they're real or not."

Sansa sees in her eyes a touch of resentment, she figures for her parents having kept her trapped for so long.

And slowly, and very quietly, she asks her. 

"If I told you a story, a very complicated one, could you keep it to yourself, whether you believed it or not?"

Shireen looks at her oddly.

"I wouldn't tell a soul."

And just like that, Sansa has another confidant.

It feels like things should change all at once, but it still somehow happens slowly. 

It’s a few days after the wedding, while guests are beginning to leave. Sansa is wandering the halls, again in Lady, when she comes upon Cersei leaving the royal apartments, with an empty bottle. 

Sansa-in-Lady takes a moment to heel behind a statue in the hall, when Littlefinger comes in her direction. 

He barely even stops upon encountering Cersei, he merely nods in her direction. 

“Such a shame it is,” he says, eyes on the bottle, “For a man to be leveled by something he loved so much.”

And Sansa finds herself slipping out of Lady’s head, a heavy sensation causing her stomach to sink. 

Of course it wouldn’t be hard, the way Robert drank, to spike his cups even more heavily. Even if someone were drinking first from his cups, they wouldn’t likely notice. 

A death he may have brought on himself, hastened by someone who desperately wanted him gone. 

A death that comes barely a moon after his eldest son’s wedding. 

“I have to make funeral arrangements,” Ned tells her that evening, when the are sitting and talking, “And arrange for Joffrey’s coronation.”

“And after that?”

Ned sighs. It seems to be his primary vocalization now.

“After...we’ll find out.”

Sansa stares out the window in her chambers that night. It’s a deep, dark, clear night, and the raven for winter flies through.


	17. Chapter 17

**King’s Landing**

Robert hasn’t even been dead two days before Joffrey dismisses Ned, and Sansa and him are turned out. The snow has barely had a chance to settle on the ground.

They are given a day to pack their things.

A tiny part of Sansa’s heart is sad. There are fond goodbyes of course, Tommen hugs her as tightly as though he were her own brother.

Tyrion is even more despondent. Joffrey’s selection for his replacement hand is, of course, Tywin Lannister.

“Couldn’t you convince him to send you back to Casterly Rock? I mean, if he dislikes having you around so much…”

“I’m afraid he distrusts me possibly taking control of Casterly Rock more than he dislikes my face.”

Sansa gets lost in thought at that. She’s unsure who even would have ended up warden of the west had the dead stayed dead. She knows there are Lannisters scattered about the whole region, one she’s never heard of likely. 

She pauses a bit before her next line.

“Why don’t you ever leave? You’re a clever man, there’s a whole world outside Westeros where no one knows you as Tywin Lannister’s son.”

Tyrion exhales noisily, and sets down his glass.

“No one may now me as that, but the whole world will still take one look at me and see a fool or a toy.”

She thinks her next words over, thoroughly. 

“We have a mutual friend,” she tells him, “A friend with a great many legs. One who considers his greatest loyalty to the whole realm. You should ask him about our friend overseas. She needed your help before.”

Tyrion actually looks confused for a moment. 

“You got shipped there is a crate before, hiding in disgrace. That might not be necessary. You could sail away a free man.”

Her next words are grim. 

“There’s enough horrors to come to Westeros that I would flee if I could.”

Throughout the rest of their goodbye, a sweet ache forms deep in Sansa’s chest. 

“I...I’m going to miss you. Promise me something?”

“Anything,” he tells her, his voice nearly breathy. It’s an odd sound coming from him. He was always good at playing things off, but not this. 

“If you hear tell of monsters coming from the north, run.”

She reaches into one of her pockets, pulling out the roll of paper she’d scribbled hastily that morning. 

“Dragonglass can kill them. Valyrian steel too. There’s a blacksmith in Flea Bottom named Mott, there’s a list of known swords in here, he's reforged them before, he can follow, but...”

There’s tears pricking at the back of her eyes, and her words are stumbling. It’s not just because if the others reach this far south, it means the north has fallen, fallen so far she can scarcely imagine.

Before Tyrion can react, she reaches out and grasps the fingers of his right hand, raising his knuckles and pressing her lips to each of them in turn, much as he had once before. 

The act calms her enough, that when she rises to her feet, her words are more steady. 

“You never caught my words for their meaning. My father did, but you didn’t. I said Tysha was your first wife, you never asked me who your second was.”

She turns and leaves, without stopping to look at his face. An errant tear creeps down her cheek. She wipes it off. 

Whatever feelings the encounter stirred inside her are pushed down by what happens later that morning.

Sansa and Ned are waiting near where their horses are being packed, when they approached by a flustered looking Brienne and Shireen. 

“Have either of you seen Lord Stannis?”

“He left yesterday after supper,” Sansa tells, “To retrieve his men and head for the Wall to aid the Night’s Watch.”

Brienne curses. Sansa’s never heard her do that before, and it shocks her. 

“Renly’s rushed off. There’s reports of Ironborn ships attacking Shipbreaker’s Bay. Some of them men have swum ashore and are attempting to lay siege to Storm’s End.”

Sansa is astonished. 

“What are they stupid? That could garrison a whole army in that hold, and withstand siege for at least a year. And if the storm’s don’t take it out, raiders certainly can’t!”

She’s heard tell that the Kingsmoot ritual involves drowning the participant for a time. Perhaps that ritual has done a number on their brains. 

Brienne shakes her head. 

“I know. But Lord Renly didn’t want Shireen anywhere near it, I was going to take her back to her father-”

Ned interrupts, 

“They left by ship, there’s no way you’ll catch them in the winter weather, and the Wall is no place for a girl.”

Brienne looks lost for a moment, before Ned continues. 

“Come with us. We can put the two of you up in Winterfell for a time. It’s a hard season, but we manage every winter, and we’ll be closer to her father than she is if she stays here. We'll send a raven a head once we leave.”

He regards Brienne, 

“You are the girl’s sworn shield correct?”

Brienne nods, solemn. 

“Then you should know that this is likely the safest route we can take.”

And after a time, Brienne agrees. 

When her and Ned begin to work out the logistics, Sansa moves and takes Shireen’s hand. The girl is quiet, but her hands are shaking. 

This is going to be harder than she imagines. 

**Winterfell**

Blizzards drive them inside.

Northerners can still work in snow, they know the snow, the landscape. But a true blizzard, with thick snow and fog and wind and deep,deep darkness will drive even the most hardy of them cowering for shelter.

It was in one of these deep blizzards that Robb drew up his letters to their bannermen. 

Davos had returned some moons before, with a ship full of evacuees and a nightmare.

He has a flashback to something Osha had asked them when they were ferrying the first ship full south. 

“Do you have a family, Davos?”

She never called him ser, but he never minded truly. 

“A wife and seven sons.”

“And you’re fine with being here with all of this, instead of with them?”

Davos had shaken his head. 

“Of course I’m not. I miss all of them every day. But my wife is one of those rare women who is content being by herself, and my eldest is old enough to have his own family. I’m filling a need here, helping these people stay with their own families, and trying to protect my own from afar.”

That had been the first of the four voyages he had made, expertly avoiding the Night Watch partrolled waters, hold full of refugees. He never let them off in the same spot twice. A few he expected, even tried to sail off on their own, into the open sea.

He told them the story of an entire Free Folk coastal settlement completely overrun by the others. How the wights had piled up upon each other until they could climb the walls of the city, with no care that they were getting crushed under each other and just kept coming. 

They didn’t have to be told about it. Jojen had woken up screaming that morning, with a vision he couldn’t tell from a nightmare. They weren’t sure if it had been Hardhorne, but it had sounded just like it. 

“And we still don’t know what’s become of Jon,” Arya tells him, hugging herself, “He hasn’t been at Castle Black in years.”

“He wasn’t there,” Davos tells her grimly, “If he had been I’d have sought him out. It was chaos, no one leading, no one guiding. I just shoved as many as I could on the ship, thanked every god I could think of that they can’t swim and fled.”

“We’ll start sending weapons to other keeps,” Robb tells him grimly, “Along with orders that every able man, woman and child to be trained in their use. Take some of the free folk with you to help begin the training.”

“Tell them,” Bran adds, “To make up lists. Add the names of anyone too old, young or sick to train.”

“We’ll start planning, see if we can identify safe places to evacuate them to if the wall is breached.”

Bear Island has become a possibility, since Davos has reminded them that the dead do not swim. After the death of Jeor Mormont in the mutiny at the wall, Dacey and Alysane Mormont had come to Winterfell to seek acknowledgement of their mother’s continued rule. 

They had met no resistance at this, but when given the same instructions that the Stark’s other sworn house’s had been given about dealing with fleeing wildlings, they had been met with mirth. 

“Wildlings used to try to raid our island, “ Dacey had said, “Now even the Iron born know better. We can do what you say, but I don’t any of them are still foolish enough to try fleeing to our little island.”

“You may be surprised,” Robb tells them grimly, “Most of them seem to be fleeing to whatever’s south of where they currently are.”

Arya watches the two of them from the side of the room, wondering if Lyanna would have resembled them when she grew up. She knew both Alysane and Dacey had been killed at the red wedding. Neither them or their mother had husbands, they all swore their children had been sired by bears. 

And with a sudden spark, Arya wonders if she could ask one of them if one of these bears had had red hair and a long beard.

The blizzards also stopper news. Even Bran can’t guide his ravens through them. They have no idea what’s occurred in the capital since Robert’s death. This is one of the few times in his second life that Bran has missed the ability to see through the weirwoods.

And with the onset of winter, Arya is suddenly quite grateful for her mother’s insistence that she marry. 

She occasionally will grumble will Gendry wraps her in her arms, his head over hers and his legs bracketing hers. 

“Why do you always get to be the big spoon?”

“Cause if I let you be the big spoon I’ll end up missing a limb one of these mornings.”

Her childhood bed is slightly too small for the two of them, but in winter the crowding is welcome. 

One morning, when they rise, Gendry spies a fairly dark mark she’d left on his shoulder the night before. It’s not the first- a few weeks prior Robb had leaned in close to examine a pink love bite on his neck, and then backed away, horrified, when he’d recognized it for what it was, but something about it niggles at him.

“I think you can see teeth here...Something bothering you?”

At her bewildered look he clarified, 

“I know they call you a she-wolf, but your teeth don’t usually come out unless you’re upset or scared.”

In the old days, so long ago it seemed, she had put up a tough facade, but then melted atop of him. It had been fun to discover that Arya, who fought so hard to keep her outside cold, loved to be held and kissed gently. But when the dead had kept rising and people had kept dying, her kisses got harder, her hands gripping tighter, often leaving him increasingly black and blue. He hadn’t minded, not particularly, except for what it made him think of her mental state. 

She sighs, and moves to kiss the mark, trying to soothe it away. 

“I didn’t realize that having everyone I loved back would leave me even more scared of losing them again.”

Gendry throws an arm across her back, running his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck. 

“What was that thing in High Valyrian? That thing that weird red and white haired fucker said when he got us out of Harrenhal?”

Arya laughs, “Valar Morghulis. All men must die.”

“Seems a bit morbid to me, but that’s the point I guess. We’re all going to have to die eventually. But you have us all here again.”

Arya’s face looks unconvinced, but she steps back to pull off her shift and begins dressing without another word. 

When the blizzard finally passes, everyone in Winterfell has gone stir crazy. Enough for even Gendry to ask to join some of the others to go with Meera and Jojen to go forage for mushrooms.

It’s a bright clear day, and the sun is high in the sky when they’re turning over logs and digging out tree trunks to look for growths to examine and see if they looked edible. 

Gendry had never known there were so many kinds of mushrooms, looking through his sack at all the different sizes and shapes. Though, he thinks as Jojen finds a small, spotted one, looks at it and shakes his head, he never really realized how deadly the wrong ones could be either. It wasn’t something that ever came up in King’s Landing, and when on the road, it had never occurred to him to even bother with mushrooms. 

They’ve all been out maybe an hour, when Jojen stops suddenly. 

When he falls over into the snow, it’s Arya who reaches him first. She rolls him over, runs a hand over his mouth and nose, and then under his chin. 

“He’s breathing,” she assures Meera. The other girl’s face has gone ashen, and she’s standing stiff, pulled tight like a lute’s string. 

“Rickon, run back to the keep, have them bring Maester Luwin down to meet us,” she says, in a single breath. 

Before Gendry can move, and before Rickon’s even out of sight, she moves and grabs Jojen under his arms, 

“Gendry, help me,”

He finally snaps out of his haze, and goes to help, and between the three of them, they manage to life Jojen, who remains motionless. He’s not too heavy, but he’s long, and his boots make his feet harder to handle. 

It takes doing, but they weren’t too far out, so they get back to Winterfell quickly enough. When the guards Rickon has alerted come out and take Jojen from the three of them, Gendry feels his muscles burn as they go slack. 

Arya grabs his hand quietly as they step aside. Meera stands at the end where they had dropped him and she looks frozen to her spot, and like she might fall over herself. 

Bran hadn’t gone with them, for obvious reasons, but having been drawn out of the keep by the ruckus, he awkwardly makes his way to join them. 

He approaches Meera quietly, and when he reaches out to gingerly touches her hands, she heaves and presses her face into his neck.

Gendry feels Arya pull his hand, and whisper, “leave them be.”

Her voice when she speaks again is incensed, but her face has that same faraway look it had the morning he’d questioned her biting him. 

“Jojen better be pretty sick if he scared us that bad,”

“Are you going to yell at him when he wakes up,”

She shakes his head, 

“I’m going to set Mother on him.”

The next time they see Jojen is the next day when Meera goes to bring him his supper. Maester Luwin tells them he has a fever and a bad chest infection, and shouldn’t have gone outside. He plies him with ointments to ease the cough he wakes with and makes him a tea to help the fever. 

He also still looks suitably terrified by whatever it was Lady Catelyn said to him. 

It’s a few weeks later, when Gendry’s by himself in the forge, when Jojen asks if he can come in and sit for a while. 

Even this long after, his cough is lingering, so Gendry tells him, 

“Sure, but you should stay by the door away from the smoke.”

He sits quietly for a while, reading a book he’s brought with him. 

“You’re from the capital right?”

Gendry nods, “Grew up in Flea Bottom, Biggest slum in the whole place.”

“Someplace with that many people, is there anywhere you would go if you got sick?”

Gendry laughs wryly. 

“Barely. If you were lucky you might know an old woman who knew about healing or someone at a tavern who was used to sewing up brawl wounds. Mostly if you got sick enough you just died.”

Jojen’s face at this point looks an awful lot like what Arya’s occasionally has. 

“After Lady Catelyn scolded me...throughly, I asked her how the maesters learned all they did about helping the sick.”

He’s never met one before Luwin, but even Gendry knew about the citadel. He also knows that no maester would bother himself with the problems of the common folk. 

“It’s a big undertaking,” Gendry says, “You basically have to give up your whole life to become one.”

“And that’s stupid,” Jojen replies, forcefully, “Why should they keep all the knowledge just for themselves? People get sick everywhere. Lords have to pay to receive one at their castles, that’s why we don’t have one at Greywater Watch.”

He’s quiet for a bit longer, then admits. 

“It didn’t surprise me at all when Meera told me I died young. I always thought I would. In the swamp, it’s much the same. You get sick enough and you just die.”

Gendry thinks long on his next words, before saying. 

“Valar Morghulis,”

Jojen nods, having learned enough High Valyrian to know the saying. 

“Sounds like an excuse if you ask me.”

**Over the Wall**

The boy is walking steadily, pointing and babbling when Gilly finally decides on a name for him. 

Jon had told her about his friends at Castle Black, and she had liked the sound of the name Aemon. It makes Jon’s heart twinge, wondering if one of his only remaining relatives was still living, but happy to know he would be remembered if not. 

“It’s not so bad,” she tells him, “Lots of us don’t name our babes until they walk. They die too easily when they’re small.”

The cave really isn’t a good place for a young child, but it’s safer than above ground. And when Aemon begins to talk, he begins to whisper the same words Jon does. 

These are the words Rowan has begun teaching him. Maester Luwin had taught all of the Stark children High Valyrian, but Jon doesn’t believe it ever sounded like this coming from him. He recalls his words sounded stiff, practiced. Luwin had waved them all on, saying that reading it was more important. The words the trees speak are different. It’s like they speak in all the senses.

Ygritte had listened to them one day, and said they didn’t even sound like words.

“Almost sounds like you’re singing.”

Sometimes Jon sits and listens to the wind outside the caves, blowing through the trees that dot the hillside. Singing seems an appropriate word, he hopes that what he sounds like. 

Gilly and the other’s don’t always make it back for supper, their map-making taking time, though their paths through the caves are unobstructed. Sometimes Ygritte leaves and hunts something to roast. The moss Rowan seems to favor doesn’t seem to do much to bolster a human’s strength. She dries some, and sends them with Henneh and Petra, Gilly’s youngest sisters. When she gives it to them, sometimes they’re gone overnight. 

Jon still feels overwhelmed, and one day, he finally asks Rowan, 

“So, what’s the endgame for this? What is it all for?”

Rowan looks contemplative, and reaches out to touch his hands. 

“What brought you over the wall Jon Snow?”

He is confused, 

“Duty? Following my commander’s lead?”

Rowan smiles, almost amused. 

“Why specifically?”

Jon pauses for a long time. 

“We were hoping to find my uncle Benjen and the other rangers who’d gone missing. And to find out why the wildlings were fleeing their villages.”

Rowan nods. She reaches out and touches the root of the dead tree. 

“All of the trees speak the same language, and they all speak to one another. Perhaps you could ask them if they had seen your uncle?”

The question should be bizarre, but it’s become almost normal. 

“This one’s dead, will it be able to answer?”

Rowan shakes her head. 

“But I can take you to one that will.”

The journey isn’t far, it’s down one of the close caverns Gilly has already mapped. The little weirwood is barely larger than the one Rowan had rooted, maybe a few years. Its trunk is skinny, and it’s only maybe ten or twelve feet tall. 

When he realizes he must look apprehensive, Rowan touches him. 

“Go ahead. It’s not a person, it can’t take offense.”

Jon’s words whisper his memories of his uncle. His height, build, his long hair. Who his parents were, his siblings. These words become his image, his voice giving shape to his very self. 

Jon is so shocked when the tree responds he nearly falls over. Listening he finds, is easier than speaking. Maybe it always was. 

He doesn’t see it, not really, not in the way he’d heard Bran speak of his visions. It’s like he was there, and he’s remembering it. 

He remembers seeing Benjen being surrounded by the others. He recognizes their piercing blue eyes without a word. He remembers them pierce his heart. He remembers him fleeing, beginning to turn blue himself. He remembers Rowan, as clear as she is standing beside him right now. He remembers seeing her take him by the hand, to one of her caves. 

When Jon pulls himself out, he asks her, 

“He’s still alive.”

“For want of a better word. He is not whole, but he is still himself.”

Jon feels a weight lift off his chest as the two of them make their way back to the main cave. 

They make more journeys out to the weirwood, sometimes day after day in a row, when Rowan feels Jon needs to work on his speech, or she remembers something she feels he needs to see more than others. 

He spies Gilly and the others carrying rough crosses. 

“Iron and dragonglass,” Rowan acknowledges, “I buried one far north. They are doing the same south towards the wall. If we get them in the ground before they manage to breach it, then they shouldn’t be able to keep rising. The long dead should stay down.”

Before? Jon thinks, more than a little alarmed. 

One night, he returns from his lessons to only a fire and Ygritte. 

“No one else back yet?”

Ygritte shakes her head. She’s holding a sword. 

Jon feels the back of his neck prickling. 

“Where’d you find that?”

“One of these caverns. Rowan said it belonged to the tree-man who lived here before. More fun than the axe.”

Brynden Rivers, Jon recalls, is what she had said was the original name of the man who became the Three-Eyed Raven. A bastard, just like him.

He goes to take a look at the handle, and something about the blade catches his eye. 

“May I?”

She shrugs. 

The weight gives it up. 

“This is Valyrian steel,” he tells her, astonished, “Like Longclaw. There’s less than a dozen of these left in Westeros.”

“So a good find?”

He recalls his siblings telling him to hold tightly to Longclaw, because it could destroy Others. 

“Hold onto this,” he tells her, passing the sword back. She raises an eyebrow. 

“Sure I’m not going to lob any important bits off in your sleep now?”

He laughs. 

“You would have done it by now if you were.”

Maybe it’s the peace of the moment, or the joy of finding the sword, or maybe it’s the firelight catching her hair. 

“Can I kiss you?”

Ygritte’s face turns contemptuous. He can feel the mocking in her words before they even start. Whatever despair her memories had brought to her, there is no sign of. 

“All these years throwing myself at you and all you’re going to do is kiss me?”

He snorts. 

“I know nothing remember, I have to learn.”

And before she can get in a retort, he leans over and follows through. 

He kisses quite a lot of her that night, and though she isn’t quiet the whole time, none of her words are complaints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : stares at pairing tag I added this chapter : I can't believe there's nothing else in that tag, but once the idea hit me I couldn't get it out of my head, and I finally figure out if they were every going to actually meet in this monster of a story.


	18. Chapter 18

**On the King’s Road**

On the journey back to Winterfell, Sansa tells Shireen the whole story. 

She’s a good listener, or perhaps it’s just a good story. 

The weather is too terrible to camp very much. Sansa does not feel she misses much travelling in the wheelhouse this time. The few inns they pass cost a great deal, and food is stretched thin. 

The two of them sleep in the wheelhouse, pressed close together as though they were sisters sharing secrets. Maybe in a way they are. 

And so, these stories shared under moonlit cover, must sustain them. At least that’s how Shireen tells it. 

She weeps the day that Sansa is forced to tell her how she died. She shakes her head violently. 

“My father wouldn’t do that - he loves me!”

Sansa nods softly. 

“Of course he does. That’s what made it so awful.”

Shireen sniffs, and wipes her eyes. 

“Did it even help?”

Sansa’s heart breaks in two. 

“No. Half your father’s men deserted him. Who would have thought that burning a child alive was bad for morale? He still attacked Winterfell, still tried to take down the Boltons. His remaining forces were crushed. He died later that day, executed by Lady Brienne for using the Red Woman’s black magic to kill your uncle.”

Shireen laughs through her tears. 

“Maybe Ser Davos was right to take me away all those years ago.”

Sansa turns solemn. She reaches out to brush a tear off Shireen’s cheek. 

“I never met you before. I only knew of you from Davos’s stories. He loved you, mourned you as if you were his own child. His very first thought when he returned with us was to get you to safety. It’s worked so far.”

Shireen slumps, and rests her head on Sansa’s shoulder. 

“I used to have dreams of being burned to death in a dragon’s fire,” she says. 

“Dragons are just huge beasts,” Sansa assures her, “The real most frightening monsters look just like men.”

Once Shireen’s sobs have subsided a bit, Sansa tries to cheer her up. 

“Lady Brienne was the very first woman knight in the seven kingdoms.”

Shireen’s wet eyes blink in surprise.

“How?”

Sansa laughs, “Any knight can make a knight, it’s merely convention that women can’t be knights. She was knighted properly before the Long Night by Jamie Lannister, though she’d been acting the role of true knight for many years before. “

Shireen’s tears have ceased and been replaced by a confused look. 

“Jamie Lannister? He’s- well, I wouldn’t call him mean, but…”

Sansa snorts. 

“You can call him mean all you want. He pushed my little brother from a window- twice now. He couldn’t walk at all after the first time, and even though it wasn’t all that bad this time, he still can’t run or walk without a cane. Brienne claims he’s a good man underneath, but extracting that man is not within my skill set. Apparently the first step needed is a complete twin removal.”

Shireen sniffs. 

“I never had siblings, always wondered what it was like.”

“It’s got its ups and its downs.”

Shireen suddenly purses her lips, remembering something from long ago. 

“When Davos took me to Storm’s End, he said he was trying to rescue one of my cousin’s. Said in a different time he could have even been a prince. I guess that’s the closest thing I’ve got.”

Sansa cackles at the word ‘prince’, 

“Oh, I am so going to tell him that Davos told you that. That was Gendry he was speaking of, one of your late uncle’s bastards. Davos got him out of King’s Landing fine, he married my younger sister.”

Shireen’s eyes go wide. 

“Oh! That means we actually are family already!”

Seven hells, Sansa thought, no wonder Davos was so desperate to protect this girl.

It’s later in the journey, they’re about to cross into the North properly when it happens. 

They’d been up early to get a quick start. The day was miraculously clear, and they could cover a great deal of road if it stayed that way. 

Sansa had just been standing with she felt her skin prickle. She couldn’t put her finger on anything, just a sudden feeling of wrongness. She feels Lady shift at her side, picking up on her ill at ease. Rotating slowly, she managed to silently catch Brienne’s eye. 

They don’t need to speak, Brienne sees her gesture with her eyes off into the tree line. 

She pulls, nocks and looses her arrow silently. 

All she does is graze the man, splitting the leather of his doublet and slicing the skin underneath, but the yell he lets out it enough. Brienne and the other guards can put him on the ground within a moment when he lurches from the cut on his arm, losing grip on his own bow.

They get him down easily, get his bow from him, but don’t trap his arms fast enough. He pulls the dagger from his belt and cuts his own throat. 

With barely a second to think, Ned orders one of the guards to sweep the treeline and see if there was anyone else. 

Looking at the man dead on the ground, Sansa feels her stomach lurch. He had been so close....She grasps Shireen’s elbow, her fingers pressed so tightly to her face that she’s left marks on the skin.

The others are arguing. 

“That’s a Lannister cloak-”

“But he’s got the Baratheon colors underneath-”

“Which ones though?”

“He’s not one of Renly’s, I’ve never seen him before-”

“A sellsword? But why dress him up.”

Quietly, Sansa walks beside the man’s head, lolling back above the deep cut where his blood gushed free. His dagger has fallen from his lifeless grip. 

With a wrinkle of her brow, Sansa knocks it from his hand and picks it up. 

“Sansa-” Ned interrupts her, and she tests the items weight.

“He sent it with a catspaw before...to think he knew nothing of how valuable it could be. “

She turns to Ned. 

“Don’t think too much on whose man he is. Likely a sellsword, they wouldn’t ask questions. The colors are probably deliberate, meant to confuse. I’m not even sure who he was targeting is important.”

Her stomach sinks with the thought. She isn’t sure herself, it could have been Father or her, or even Shireen and Brienne. She can’t picture the dead man’s sights from where he was standing. They don’t know if he was waiting, watching, or anything.

“Lord Baelish spoke often of the value of chaos. This is Valyrian steel. It was given to a paid assassin before, in an attempt on Bran’s life. I don’t think he was the one who ordered it, but it still ended up in his hand. It did exactly what it was intended to here, it spread discord.”

“Sansa,” Ned starts, “How do you…”

She turns the dagger over in her hand. 

“That’s likely what he wants, to turn us on each other, make us suspicious. He clearly didn’t pick this man for his stealth.”

Ned takes a deep breath. 

“What do you suggest?”

Sansa thinks. She’s still unused to people looking to her. 

“We keep going. Keep an eye open. Don’t think too hard about it.”

She finds a rag and wipes off the dagger, then tucks it into the pocket at the waist of her skirt. 

“And I’ll keep a hold of this.”

**At Winterfell **

During a clear day, the raven announcing Sansa and Ned’s return makes it to Winterfell. There is rejoicing. Even Robb looks relieved at the thought of being able to pass the mantle of lord back to his father.

At least by most. 

Catelyn sits at the breakfast table long after most of the rest of the keep has left, and the dishes have been cleared. She sits, and thinks. 

It would be a lie to say she was not overjoyed at the thought of seeing her eldest daughter again. It would also be a lie to say the thought of seeing Ned again did not fill her with an array of mixed emotions 

It’s been over three years. She feels like she should have become more accustomed to things now. Like maybe she should have been able to move past the lies. 

Then she hears how her other children, who have lived so many more years than they should, speak of Jon, and of their father. 

They can love their brother-cousin, and still look at their father, knowing he lied to them about Jon for so many years. Why can’t she?

Her reverie is broken by the sound of her second youngest re-entering the Great Hall. Bran walks carefully back up to the table, and sits roughly, reaching under the bench to retrieve his cane where he’d left it.

“I nearly made it all the way out to the training yard this time,” he admits to her. He’d managed to lose the last cane somewhere, and when Gendry had given him this one, he’d threatened to ram the next one through the back of his hand if he lost this one.

“Is it easier in the morning?”

Bran nods.

“Sometimes. The ache doesn’t really start up until I’ve stressed it more than a bit.”

Catelyn feels a rush of tenderness at her son’s attitude.

“I know the gods have given you quite a burden to bear.”

Bran laughs. 

“The gods didn’t do this me, Jamie Lannister did.”

He doesn’t tell her how small of a burden it seems this time, how his last life he had spent certain he would never do any great deeds like he had dreamed of as a child, never marry, never have a family and likely die alone. 

Catelyn raises an eyebrow at him. 

“I never took you for one to deny the power of the gods.”

“Given my own experiences, I have grown fairly sure that they must exist, but doubtful that they are at all concerned with us.”

Catelyn looks like she’s going to open her mouth to object to Bran’s irreverence again, so he changes the subject, to what he recognizes is likely troubling her.

“You’re worried about seeing Father again, aren’t you?”

Catelyn nods softly, not seeing the point in denying it. Bran had always been the kindest of the Stark children, the most empathetic. It made sense that he would be able to read it all over her face.

There’s a long moment before Bran responds, 

“It was like that for us at the beginning too. We were all so excited to see you again, but we were terrified. Worried about how you would react. “

“I’m not concerned with how you’re father will react-”

Bran cuts her off.

“Wondering whether he felt any guilt at all about the lies he had told.”

Bran looks thoughtful for a time. Catelyn had often seen the ghost of the years in his sister’s eyes, but she’s seen it on him far less often. 

“Believe me Mother, I’ve known plenty of guilt about actions in the past that I couldn’t change. Forgiveness is an incredible gift if you’re willing to give it.;

He leans over the end of the bench to hug her.

“You’re allowed to still be angry with him. None of us hold it against you, most of us were angry at him when we found out, at least for a little while. The question is whether or not you want to still be angry at him.”

Bran pulls himself up and rests his cane on the ground. 

“You should think on it before they get home. Father always said he did his best thinking in the Godswood. It’s clear today, and no one will bother you there.”

Catelyn doesn’t respond to his suggestion before Jojen sticks his head into the hall and tells Bran that one of his ravens has returned, and with a gesture of his cut hands explained that the bird was “rather insistent” that it’s message be read with haste.

It’s barely a few more minutes before she decides that his suggestion is a good one. 

The Godswood is a bit alien to Catelyn still, its pools and ancient woods a part of a faith which is not hers. But it is peaceful, and empty. Sitting below the weirwood, she can pray, undisturbed by anyone but Gray Wind who trots by. Her furs are thick, and blanket her from the biting cold.

She thinks to pray for the ability to forgive Ned, but what she actually prays for is her own forgiveness.

She prays to the Mother, to the Maiden too, and once more, to the Crone. She’s not sure who will respond to her pleas. She wonders which of them would touch Jon, which of them might soften his heart. She knows that emotions are usually considered the domain of the Mother, but would he be touched by her, when the woman who acted as his own mother had been so cold?

She’s been out for maybe an hour or two when her peace is interrupted by Arya.

“Sorry Mother, there’s a letter come for you- it’s from Aunt Lysa.”

Oh dear, she thinks, this can’t be good news. Sansa had been rather light on the details about Lysa, but none suggested that Catelyn’s sister is doing well at all.

**Over the Wall**

The weirwoods all speak the language, and their roots go deep. Rowan teaches Jon, that they all speak to each other, in their own way. 

“Despite this, there is still the effect of distance. A voice spoken on one end of the continent will reach a voice on the other, but it may not be true in strength.”

“So if I ask one if another one…”

“You will get an answer, but it may not be as complete or accurate as if you asked one right here.”

The trees of the far flung north are screaming. The night king is gathering his army. The trees don’t call him that, the name they call him doesn’t translate well. All of the dead, are to the trees ‘other’, and their king is THE other, the great one. The trees don’t know what he’s doing. 

“He’s trying to get past the wall,” Ygritte tells him, “Same as us.”

Jon spares a glance to Rowan. She had told him before that after joining with Gilly and the others, their group had sought out and destroyed a horn that Mance Ryder and his men had been seeking, believing it to be the legendary horn of winter, which could bring down the wall.

“That does seem likely,” she concedes, “Seeing as the others are aiming to bring about a winter that will never end, that they would seek the other sides of the continent.”

“They can’t get over the wall,” Jon says, with firmness, “The stories are always that there were enchantments upon it. And whether or not that’s true-”

Rowan chuckles to herself, and Jon rolls his eyes. All the things she has shown him and he stills feels the urge to doubt any words speaking of magic.

Some time later, Jon asks her. 

“My brother Bran...he said that the raven never finished teaching him because they were forced to flee this cave.”

Rowan nods. 

“The night king touched your brother while he was in a vision. Because of this, he could find your brother, could pursue him wherever he went. That was how he found this place.”

Her eyes turn faraway, in a way they often do when speaking of her fallen brothers and sisters. 

“I have often questioned why Brynden Rivers seemed to not think it worthwhile to explain to him the reasons for the rules he gave your brother, and their importance. That he would just take him at his word and not question.”

Like they had said before, Jon thought, Bran was young. Might be he might not have even listened. Anyone who had ever had any sort of interaction with children should have known better.

He breaches the subject he’s been thinking on for much of the time in this cave. 

“Rowan...do you think you are really the last child of the forest? Like, there is no one else in the world- I mean, I don’t imagine your kind could have children with humans, but there are giants and other types…”

Rowan lets her eyes fall upon the ground, her ears drooping. 

“No. Even if I were still in my child bearing years...Even if I tried, I will be the last. I may die in the battle that is coming, I may live another hundred years...but I will be the last.”

There is pain in her words, pain that cuts Jon deeply. 

“My sister had a child,” she continues, “A young son. I haven’t seen either of them...they are gone now of course.”

Later in the day, while they have paused their lessons, Jon takes Ygritte aside. Rowan is helping the others mix some of the green moss into a thin broth they’d made of the bones of a hare Ygritte had caught earlier that week.

“Can you come with me to the weirwood? I’d rather not do this with Rowan around.”

She looks at him curiously, opening her mouth as though she wants to mock, but holds it in. 

She lets some of it out during the walk. The rest of the time, she talks about what the other wildlings had been planning to do to get past the wall themselves.

“Really? You were going to try and climb it? You’re mad, the lot of you.”

“We’d have done it too.”

She wrinkles her nose, deep in thought. 

“We would have gone over it, I wonder if anyone’s ever tried to tunnel under it.”

That gives Jon pause. 

“That...would take a great deal of effort and work. Don’t think you could do it without being noticed.”

Ygritte shrugs.

“Guess we ought to be glad that the dead aren’t strong as giants.”

They reach the weirwood, and Jon sits by its side, Ygritte off on the other end of the cave opening, trying not to stare. 

He asks the tree of his home, of Winterfell. 

The words he gets back are immediate, they are coming from Winterfell now, not past. To his surprise, the first thing it speaks of is Lady Catelyn. Jon knew she was a very devout follower of the Seven, and he had never seen her in the Godswood. Yet, she is still there to pray. The fine lines on her face are deeper now, and Jon is suddenly hit with the realization that his siblings must have told her about their past lives too.

To Jon’s shock, the feeling he is overcome with from the trees words is her guilt. She is both praying for serenity in her own heart, to be able to let go of her anger, and for someone else to let go of their own. Her prayers are softly spoken aloud, but the trees can read her face as easily as Jon would read a book. 

With a rush, he realizes she is thinking of him.   
He is quiet when they return to the camp, even when Ygritte tried to rile him up by pulling his curls straight and letting them go. 

“Tree got your tongue?” she asks.

He cranes his head over his shoulder to look at her.

“Have you ever had someone treat you unfairly for so long that it actually threw you that they might feel guilty about it?”

Ygritte furrows her brow. 

“Who did you asks that tree about?”

“I asked it to show me my home, and it showed me...Lady Catelyn, my father’s wife.”

“Your father’s-”

“I grew up a bastard, and she never once let me forget it.”

“That’s not very motherly,” Ygritte admits, “Though I guess I can sort of see her perspective. You southerners basically blame women for the smallest of weaknesses and yet expect them to forgive men of all of them. Maybe it just finally hit her that you weren’t at fault.”

Jon pulls his knees up to his chest. 

“But why couldn’t she have seen that when I was still at Winterfell?”

Ygritte leans over and rubs the tip of her nose softly against a soft spot she’d found behind his ear. 

“Jon Snow, you’re a man grown now. Don’t trouble yourself by the thoughts of someone so far away. If she wants you to forgive her, she can ask when she sees you again.”

Jon wraps an arm around her, taking her in, with her rough furs and crooked teeth. 

“I wonder what Lady Catelyn would say if I tried to bring you home?”

“Probably some of that fainting you insist Southern women are so fond of doing.”

Jon’s dreams that night are troubled. They start with mostly memories, twisted ones, of Lady Catelyn’s scoldings and admonitions from his childhood. Her words, once just cold and stern, turn venomous and hateful. Then suddenly, her mouth becomes a black hole and Jon shakes himself awake. 

Then his dreams shift to his last conversation with uncle Benjen before they had left for the wall. He sees his uncles face, and then it turns dark, cold, and twisted. His misshapen head tilts back, and he screams. 

Jon wakes again, and lies there, Ygritte snoring an inch away, and hopes with all his heart that his dreams aren’t prophetic like people speak of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit guys, 60,000 words and 1000 kudos! I've never followed through on a fic like this before. Who was to know watching an entire series within the span of a month with such a disappointing end could do this?


	19. Chapter 19

**King’s Landing**

With his father now living in the Red Keep, Tyrion spends much of his day’s making himself as scarce as possible. It’s not like he hadn’t already been welcomed by the city’s drinking and gambling establishments, so it didn’t look unusual to anyone. 

In reality, he spent much of the time he spent drinking his wine also reading. Reading the cobbled, haphazard letters that Sansa had left him, and also the one she’d pressed on him years ago. 

He hated to admit how much he missed her presence. Her smile, her laugh her ability to spit a poisoned barb and disguise it as a smiling compliment. And even if he didn’t completely believe them, the kind words she spoke to him. Sometimes he swore he could still feel the kiss she had pressed to his knuckles. 

Jamie had ribbed him more than a bit, telling that the real reason he missed her so much was because she had been one of the only people in the Keep to completely enjoy his company, and that he didn’t pay for the trouble. 

But it wasn’t just that. 

She wrote, in both letters, vividly, of the others. The blue eyes and skin of ice. Of the reanimated dead who could only be put down with fire, with the wights, who required dragon glass or Valyrian steel.

She was very clear on this. 

Tyrion Lannister would never have thought himself a man who believed in things he could not see, but he believed her. 

It’s why, on this afternoon, he finds himself at the headquarters of the Alchemist’s guild, beneath Rhaenys’s Hill.

Wisdom Hallyne greets him with enthusiasm. It has been too long, he says, since anyone from court had chosen to bless them with a visit.

“I have come,” Tyrion says, “To inquire about the substance.”

This makes Hallyne smile, pointed.

“I was wondering, if your organization had any contacts north of the Neck, anyone who might have the knowledge on how to make it.”

With the smile still on his face, Hallyne gathers a bit of parchment with a name on it. 

“A former Wisdom of our order who has left still lives in a village near Castle Cerwyn. He should be able to provide you with what you desire, for the right price.”

“Gold is not an issue,” Tyrion assures, “Not for a Lannister.”

“Might I inquire,” Hallyne asks, “Why you are seeking Wildfire, and why would you need it so far north?”

Tyrion presses his lips into a thin line. 

“A Northern winter, sometimes you go to desperate measures to stay warm.”

With this errand off his list, he returns to the Red Keep and to his chambers. 

There he writes a pair of letters. He sends the name he found today to Winterfell, that they might contact him on their own discretion. 

The other is slipped with a servant, to be delivered to Tywin later that day. 

After he is finished, it doesn’t take him long to locate Varys. 

“How’s the word from down south?”

Varys smiles. 

“Our friend is due to make landfall in Dragonstone within the next six moons.”

Good timing, Tyrion thinks, with Stannis clear on the other side of the kingdoms and Renly otherwise occupied. 

“And you will be there to meet her?”

Varys nods in acknowledgement. 

“And you sure you are fine with me accompanying you.”

“Actually, I am rather excited you chose to approach me with this, my lord. I feel the two of us make an excellent team.”

**The Neck**

Howland Reed knew he was not a young man anymore. He knew this would be true even if the injuries he had sustained at the Tower of Joy didn’t still flare up and hurt him to this day. It had been getting worse as winter began. One of the little joys in the return to the past had given him was a few more years before the cold caused the pain and breathlessness to come more and more often. 

As opposed to the great joys, of seeing his son live again and his daughter smile again. 

Even if now, as winter had come, all he could do for them was sit and keep an eye open for the Stark boy’s ravens. Once he had realized that they could be guided to the keep, he had ordered his men to catch them, in frog nets or rabbit snares rather than shoot them down as they usually did. 

“My lord…” one of the archers had objected. He had nodded in understanding. Greywater Watch’s inability to be found had been it’s strongest defense against attackers of both man and night. 

It hadn’t taken long once the first of them had been caught for most of his men and women to be able to spot them. They didn’t always fly like normal ravens, and sometimes they would see them change direction or elevation in flight as though possessed. 

He had assumed that one of the ravens was the reason for him being summoned this morning, but when the guard leads him to the edge where the crannog met the water, what the man hands him is not even alive. It’s the deepest of winter, and the bogs and creeks and streams have all mostly frozen over. Travel could be very treacherous in these parts because of it, even with the modified snowshoes most wore, a single wrong step could send a man plunging through the ice, and he heeded how important the finds must have seemed for his men to make the journey to show it to him.

“What on-”

“We found it round where the Fenn’s rice fields are in spring,” The man on tells him, “Was ice fishing and it came right up. Seemed like something you should see.”

The object in his hands is wrapped in burlap and strangely heavy. When he unwraps it, he’s surpised to find a harp, a small one, no bigger than a woodharp, but made of bronze. 

“You found this under the ice?”

The man nods. 

“Wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except these,” he says, pointing at a series of carvings along the harp’s side. He stares at them a moment, trying to puzzle out what they look like. 

When he returns to the keep, he asks one of the lookouts,

“Have we heard anything from the Stark’s party?”

The man shakes his head. 

“They came down the Kingsroad a few days ago and made it without us having to intervene.”

Reed curses to himself. He has no idea what he’s come across, but he had hoped to get Ned’s take on it. He sets the harp on his writing desk, and stares at a blank sheet of parchment wracking his brain for what to write. 

He runs a finger down the side, over the carvings, and it hits him. 

Runes, that’s what they look like. The first men carved runes, though they did not put them in books or scrolls. Many held that these runes were proof of the magical secrets that died with them. He feels a cold sensation begin in his gut and wonders what these could mean. 

He takes a deep breath before beginning to write. He hopes it’s not too long before one of Bran’s ravens comes back through the swamp.

**Winterfell**

There is no snow on the day the party returns to Winterfell, but the fog is so thick the guards on the ramparts don’t see it coming until they are straight in front of the gates. 

Robb and Catelyn are finishing up petitions when word comes, and Robb only manages to politely dismiss the others in the hall with the greatest of effort before making a dash out to meet them. Catelyn smiles, a little forced, and trails behind, saying she will gather the others. 

Most of them are in the training yard, with Ser Davos quietly observing, having taken a few days to rest before attempting another voyage. They are shooting arrows this time, because Arya with a sword can’t be matched by anyone but Robb, or sometimes Theon anymore. They’re shouting at each other, but stop quickly when Catelyn approaches. 

When they all leap to attention to go to the front and greet everyone, Cateyn hangs back with Davos. 

Sansa’s the first she sees, the easiest to see with her bright red hair peeking out from under her hood. She’s somehow grown even taller, she’s nearly as tall as Ned, Catelyn notes, and she stood with her full height. 

Arya runs and hugs her first, which after all this time still somehow surprises her. It’s more familiar, however, when Sansa reaches back and yanks her sister’s braid hard, as if they were not two grown women. 

“Can’t BELIEVE you went and got married without me again…” Sansa spits petulantly, but doesn’t let her sister out of her embrace yet. 

Ned is...the same as he’s always been. A few more lines on his face and a few more gray hairs perhaps. Stress of the capital Cat thinks. And seeing him again makes her heart flutter in her chest despite the mixed feelings in her head. 

His eyes find hers, uncertain, skittish. She clears her throat, and decides the best topic is a neutral one. 

She turns her gaze to Brienne and Shireen. 

“I see we have a couple of extras to find room for.”

Ned’s expression turns grave. 

“Yes. And things down south may turn quite ugly soon. As if the ugliness from the north wasn’t enough.”

He doesn’t yet mention the failed attack.

The serious tone in his voice is lightened when he gets mobbed by the rest of his children. Watching his eyes go wide at the sight of Arya and Bran is gratifying. Arya had been correct that she had reached womanhood quite gracefully, but Bran had seemingly sprouted up like a beanpole overnight, and Catelyn feels vindicated by Ned’s shock. 

There’s a pause, when Ned stops to introduce the other two, and most of them look like they’re pretending not to recognize them. 

Arya, especially, squeals and greets Brienne with a, 

“Finally! Someone else around here who’s not rubbish with a sword!”

“It seems your reputation precedes you,” Sansa says, smiling, covering her sister’s slip with ease. 

Sansa watches as Gendry looks Shireen up and down and watches the glimmer of recognition on his face. Davos had mentioned the girl before, but none of the others had met her. No wonder the hit had been able to go out on the other Baratheon bastards so easily, he thought. Her hair was a bit light (from her mother’s side Davos had said), but the eyes were identical. The scars from her grayscale were distracting, but he could even see a bit of same jawline under it. Before he can open his mouth and speak, Shireen’s eyes catch something off to the side and races off. 

Sansa nods off to go and talk to Theon. Something tells her the two of them aren’t going to want this conversation watched.

Shireen throws her arms around Ser Davos’s neck. It’s been so long since she’s seen him that she’s nearly up to his nose. 

She tries to speak, but finds herself choking on her words, eventually managing to ask. 

“Sansa said- she told me...Father….” her voice trails off. 

The older man simply hugs the girl, making soft reassuring noises, and Sansa redirects her attention when her mother begins ushering everyone inside out of the cold. 

It’s too late in the season for a proper feast, but the soup is thick with barley and potatoes among the bits of tough mutton stewed long until it fell off the bone.

It tastes of home and warms Sansa to her core.

Catelyn smirks as she spies Ned watching Arya and Gendry out of the corner of her eye. 

“I almost feel I’ve been hoodwinked,” she admits, “Arya threw the lad and her marriage at us when she was so young we considered it ridiculous...and by the time it began to seem real we had all grown used to him.”

“She may have seen that as a benefit, if not a goal.”

Catelyn’s eyes are rueful. 

“I would have dismissed him outright before. Before all of this, I wouldn’t have even listened to Arya’s pleas.”

Ned takes her hand under the table and Catelyn feels tears prick at her eyes. She thanks all the gods that he doesn’t make her finish her thought, doesn’t make her talk about the other boy who she had dismissed outright. 

“Perhaps these trials are the gods making us reexamine how we view these parts of our lives.”

After a long moment of silence, Catelyn adds, with a smirk in her voice. 

“Even after I dragged them into the sept, they act just the same.”

Arya was demonstrating this by quietly licking the tip of one finger and sneaking it into Gendry’s left ear to make him jump, even as he keeps one arm wrapped tight around her back and she one of her legs hooked with his under the table.

“You’ve never had cousins or siblings before,” she teases, smiling with deceptive sweetness, “I have to give you a peek of what it’s actually like.”

“Be happy she’s past the age of food flinging and tying your boot laces together,” Sansa reassures him.

“Careful Sansa, I’ve been told I’ve been told I have an incredibly childlike spirit”. 

Smiling at their back and forth, Gendry’s gaze turns to the end of the table, where he notices Shireen isn’t sitting. 

Shireen had, in fact, not been especially hungry, and so had told Brienne that she would be sitting just outside the Great Hall on a box, that she needed some air. 

She was sitting there now, staring out into the ground blanketed with snow. She’d never seen proper snow before, and it was beautiful, even if the cold up this far north made her face go numb. 

She isn’t sure what’s she’s thinking about, her knees tucked tightly into her chest, when she hears a voice behind her. 

“Brought you some soup.”

The bowl is offered to her by a slight, sandy haired lad who she remembers seeing in the group that welcomed them, but cannot recall his name. 

“Thank you,” she tells him, taking the bowl, thought she had been honest before and isn’t terribly hungry, “Sorry, I don’t remember your name?”

“I’m Jojen Reed,” he tells her. 

After a moment of watching her, he blurts out. 

“Did someone tell you how you died?”

Shireen is so taken aback she feels herself jolt. His words are completely honest though, and she doesn’t get a chance to answer before he continues. 

“Sorry, I know it’s...but you’ve got the same look on your face I feel like I’ve had on mine for the past several years. ‘

He’s sat down beside her, his knees pressed into himself the same way she has hers. It’s a defensive posture. 

Shireen opens her mouth, finding her words from the chaos that her mind has been since they left King’s Landing. 

“Yes, Sansa told. Wasn’t sure that I believed her until I talked to Ser Davos. Did-did you…”

Jojen’s head is tucked in, resting on his knees and he’s playing with the lining on his cloak. 

“My sister and I went north over the wall with Bran-”

Shireen nods. She remembers meeting Bran and can now place a curly haired woman who had been standing between him and Jojen and assumes that must be the sister.

“We were attacked by wights and I was stabbed. Meera slit my throat so I wouldn’t suffer. It’s hard, I know. Sometimes I catch Bran and Meera looking at me as though if they look away I’ll disappear again.”

Seven hells, Shireen thinks. Sansa had mentioned that there were monsters coming from over the wall, but she had been sort of avoiding thinking about that part. 

“So you don’t remember?”

Jojen shakes his head. 

“Sansa, Arya, Bran, Gendry, Ser Davos do. My father too, but he’s back home in the swamp. Most of the people here had been told, even the servants seem to know, though most of them don’t seem to really grasp it. The wildlings know exactly the things that are coming too.”

Shireen hugs her legs tighter. 

“That’s awful.” her voice quiets, but she continues, “I was told my father allowed a witch to burn me as a sacrifice.”

Jojen swears under his breath at her outburst. 

“I remember the others mentioning that a couple times...said if he would do something like that you’re father couldn’t be allowed to rule anything.”

Shireen tries not to feel the slight against her father, but she still does. She feels the tears leak free and begin to fall down her cheeks. She takes a sip of her soup. 

“I used to dream of being burned alive in dragonfire,” she says bitterly, “Maybe those dreams were prophetic.”

“No,” Jojen replies casually, “If that had truly been prophetic, it would have happened, probably already, and there wouldn’t be anything anyone could do to change it.”

His words chill Shireen, but also intrigue her. 

“You speak like-”

“Like I have them? I do. Sometimes at night when I’m asleep, sometimes I seize and fall to the ground with them during the day. But they always come true, though not always exactly as I see them. I scare people with them sometimes.”

“Greensight,” Shireen realizes, “I’ve only read about it in books, I never knew if it was actually real.” She pauses a bit before continuing, “My face scares people sometimes too.”

“I don’t know why,” he replies, “It’s just your face, it’s not like you’re scary.”

Shireen feels her cheeks flush and her whole body go warm. She covers it by taking a swig from her bowl of soup. 

She deflects by asking. 

“We passed the library tower on the way in, does anyone go in there much?”

“I do sometimes,” Jojen replies, “Since I’m pretty much the only one here who’s utterly useless in a fight. I can’t swing a sword or hold a spear. Bran and Rickon can shoot a bow better than me, even though Rickon’s not even got a beard yet and Bran’s got a bad leg. Even Lady Sansa can shoot better than me.”

“I know,” Shireen says, thinking back to the man who attacked them on the Kingsroad, she’d been trying so hard not to think about that. “She told me your sister taught her.”

Jojen nods. 

“Sansa’s been through some awful stuff, and is quite dedicated to it never happening to her or to anyone else again. That’s why I’m so glad I haven’t had too many greendreams since everyone came back.”

He stands at that point, and reaches out to tug on the edge of her cloak’s hood. 

“You should keep this up. That way if you need to cry the tears won’t freeze on your face and let everyone know.”

When he walks away, Shireen takes his advice, pulling the tie on her cloak more tightly closed, but to hide her blush, not tears.

That night is a full moon.

Later that night, Gendry is woken by being roughly shaken by his wife. 

“What are-”

“Come here, you have to hear this,” Arya whispers, pulling him out of bed towards the cracked window. He only hears the whistling of the wind at first, until she pulls it open a bit more, just enough. 

He hears a howl, and then another. 

“Is that-”

Arya’s smiling infectiously, and nearly bouncing on the balls of her feet. 

“I told her to find the others and bring them home.”

And out in the woods Nymeria and the other wolves howl at the moon.


	20. Chapter 20

**Winterfell **

Perhaps a week or so after the others had returned to Winterfell, Arya awakes, tossing and turning, after only an hour of sleep. 

With a glance at her sleeping husband (who is out like a light as usual), she pulls on her cloak and steps into her boots. She leaves in the direction of the kitchens in search of a late night snack.

The kitchen is quiet, and still, even the fire having been put out after the cook had left for the night. Arya spies a plate of wintercakes that was left out, and reaches her hand out to sneak one from the platter. 

She feels her skin prickle, and jumps at the movement in the room when she realizes she’s not alone.

“Seven hells Arya, if you’re sneaking around at night, don’t freak out on other people who are too!” 

It’s Sansa, sitting at the cook’s table, munching on a wintercake she’s already removed from the platter. She nudges it across the table in Arya’s direction. She sits and takes one. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Sansa admits, “I have to adjust to the noises here. In King’s Landing I could hear guards in the halls all night and people from the streets. Here the snow makes everything quiet.”

Arya munches her cake for a few moments more. 

“Sorry about you missing the wedding. It was Mother’s decision to push it, not ours. Only thing it really changed is that we can share a bed and the servants don’t know how to address him.”

“Do they spend all their free time studying your midsection absolutely certain Mother only allowed the two of you to marry because you’re with child?”

“You know it. Jokes on them, we didn’t even start laying together properly until like two moons ago.”

She’s still not quite sure what brought it on. Maybe it was just the right time, maybe it was the candle light making Gendry look extra handsome, but something that night just made her take his arm after supper and say ‘take me to bed.”

He hadn’t even reacted at first, just gone, “It’s still sort of early isn’t it?”

She stops where they were, and squeezes his arm a bit tighter. Her eyes meet his, teasingly, and his go wide. 

With care, Gendry glances one direction down the hall, and then the other. Satisfied that they are alone, with one swift movement he wraps both arms around her waist and lifts her into his arms. He definitely needs both arms to do it now. 

“Oh,” Arya says in surprise, shivering at the sudden feeling of his lips pressed against that spot behind her ear, “You missed me.”

When they get back to her chambers, it’s a struggle for them to get undressed because they can’t stop touching each other. She’s so glad she hadn’t let him cut his hair this time. 

When she moves to unbutton his breeches and climb on top of him, Gendry grabs both of her hands, and kisses each finger. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, we have a bed and all night. We’re not going to die tomorrow. Let’s take our time and enjoy this.”

And though Arya’s a little miffed, she kisses his wrist and melts into him. He’s right, and he’s true to word. She doesn’t think a single part of her, from the tip of her nose to the arches on her feet, and everything in between, goes unkissed. Despite his gentleness, he can’t hide his eagerness. It’s as though they hadn’t spent the last year sleeping in the same bed and fooling around. 

And after some time Gendry finally settles between her legs and enters her with a measured, careful, ease. When he’s completely sheathed, he pauses, though it looks like it takes him much effort, and searches her face for signs of pain. Finding instead, a sunny grin, he slowly slides back on his knees, and Arya, puts her hands on his shoulders and pulls herself into his lap. 

It’s rather unfair, she thinks, that it’s so hard to kiss when you’re smiling so wide. But when she comes around him for the first (second) time, she’s smiling like a loon. And also the other two times that night. 

And Arya really hopes her face doesn’t spill quite all these details. She’s still not quite sure how squeamish Sansa is about these sorts of things now. 

Sansa, for her credit, looks confused. 

“Why did you wait so long?”

Arya shrugs. 

“Some of it is that this whole thing still makes me feel like a tiny babe sometimes...but mostly because I’m really scared of going into the long night with child.”

Sansa still furrows her brow, “Maester Luwin could give you moon tea.”

Arya nods. 

“And he did, but I’ve heard enough stories that it doesn’t always work to make me feel uneasy.”

She does take the moment to smirk at her sister conspiratorially. 

“Know what he told me? He told me all of the herbs needed have been seeded to grow throughout Winter Town, along footpaths and between buildings. Had nothing to do with it of course, he told me. It wouldn’t do for a maester of the Citadel to be seen encouraging immorality. But he also said he didn’t want to hear about some crofter’s daughter sticking herself in the womb with a fireplace poker trying to bleed it out.”

“S’pose it’s nice for someone to think of them,” Sansa remarks bitterly, with a bite of her cake. There’s a long pause before her next comment. 

“Everyone always talks about it hurting.”

Arya looks at her quizzically. Whatever she had been expecting to come out of her sister, that was not it.

“It hurt some, the time before,” she says slowly, “course, I did sort of throw myself in headfirst without much thinking. It didn’t this time. I think those stories are mostly made up to excuse the behavior of clumsy, oafish husbands who likely care very little if they’re wives enjoy it or not. It’s a pretty delicate process, but I certainly don’t think it HAS to hurt.”

“Unless he wants it to.”

The silence returns. Arya has no words whatsoever for what Sansa went through with Ramsey before, could still picture the scars that dotted her sister’s body even though they were long gone. 

Mouselike, Sansa restarts her conversation. 

“In the south, I spent a lot of my free time learning to play cyvasse with Lord Tyrion and Princess Myrcella. After Myrcella left for Dorne, he still played with me often.”

Arya raises an eyebrow. She knows all this from the letters Sansa managed to send home over the years, and she wonders where it’s going. 

“Sometime this last year I became possessed by the idea that maybe when I had married him before, maybe I should have let him take my maidenhead. Even if I had still run afterwards, Ramsey likely wouldn’t have been interested in a bride who wasn’t a virgin. And whatever faults Tyrion may have, real or imagined, he wouldn’t have enjoyed hurting me.”

“Sansa,” Arya interrupts sharply, “You can’t think like that. You were fourteen years old and a prisoner. Even if he wasn’t as brutal as Ramsey, fourteen year old you would have been terrified and still would have considered it a violation. Whatever feelings you’ve developed for Tyrion came later.”

Arya’s voice softens. 

“You were always the one going on about love and romance. It shouldn’t be surprising you managed to scrounge it up out of the ashes.”

Sansa laughs. 

“You should hear your own life from the outside. If things hadn’t gone the way they did, there would have been songs about you and Gendry. A pair of lost children find each other on the road, and they turn out to be a lost princess and a king’s bastard? And you find each other again and make love before a huge battle that you not only miraculously both survive, but that you, yourself, had a hand in ending?”

Arya rolls her eyes and changes the subject. She doesn’t want to linger on the bits of her life that were out of one of her sister’s dreams. 

“Anything actually interesting happening in the south?”

“Interesting it putting it lightly, it’s a fucking mess down there.”

Arya quirks an eyebrow at her sister’s language.

“What? It’s true. Joffrey is king, even if he’s mostly his grandfather’s puppet. Stannis left the crownlands to aid the wall- Ser Davos was nearly inconsolable to hear that three of his sons left home to join him as well. Iron born ships are attacking Storm’s End for no suitably explored reason. I have no idea what on earth Danaerys is going to do with the place once she gets here. Oh, and Littlefinger is clearly still plotting since he sent that sellsword after us on the Kingsroad but still sent us an invitation to him and Aunt Lysa’s wedding.”

“What?”

Wait. 

“Neither of us mentioned that did we?”

Arya’s glare is the only response she needs. 

“Well, we were going to have to talk about it with Father and Mother in the morning anyhow, so lets just go back to bed.”

Arya gets up without another comment, but stares after Sansa as they separate in the hallway. Can’t believe her sister’s been home this long and didn’t think fit to mention that they’d been attacked.

The next morning turns into a flurry of activity. There’s more ravens at once than there’s been in ages. 

“There’s another invitation to Lysa’s wedding,” Catelyn comments, wondering at her sister’s mental state if she’d forgotten they had already sent one. 

“Here’s one from Myrcella,” Sansa adds, “She claims some of the sailors in Dorne have claimed to have seen dragons on the water.”

“Oh,” Ned says, reading his, “It appears Queen Margaery is now with child.”

Sansa lets out a sigh. That’s not going to be fun to handle when Danaerys lands in Westeros. She opens the next raven that has arrived. Reading it’s contents, she tucks it in a pocket. At her parents look, she says. 

“Something that might end up being important.”

Bran makes a noise of disgust reading his. 

“It’s from the wall. Thorne is declaring Jon dead, lost to over the wall.”

That completely ruins the atmosphere for breakfast. Benjen had been declared much the same in the past year. Commander Mormont would have never left a lost comrade go forgotten, but Thorne did not seem to share his sentiment.

Bran grabs his cane and stands up roughly. Meera jumps beside him. 

“Where are you going?”

“I’m sending Septima over the wall. Enough of the wildlings have fled that I’m not too worried about other wargs. If Jon is still alive over there I’ll find him.”

Meera nods, and stands, grabbing his hand, to accompany him. Ned spares a glance at their joined hands and Sansa has to stifle a giggle. 

Sansa returns her attention to Ned and Catelyn. 

“What are we going to do about Aunt Lysa?”

“I don’t think I can avoid it without a really good explanation, she is my sister after all. And the trip from White Harbor to Gulltown isn’t too long a journey, though getting to the Eyrie is a bit trying.”

Sansa nods, “I’ll go with you then.”

Catelyn looks concerned for a moment, but then nods. 

“I can’t accompany you two,” Ned realizes, “Robb and I need to travel to the Dreadfort to deal with the free folk.”

Arya cuts in, 

“Yes, that should be a near top priority. The free folk speak civilly of Robb and the way he has dealt with them, but they don’t know you and won’t respect you if you don’t show them the same treatment. They don’t have any loyalty to names.”

“And Mother and I going to the Vale alone might actually work out better for us.”

At everyone’s confused looks, she elaborates. 

“I told you. Littlefinger’s prime objective seems to be to seed enough chaos that things implode around him and he can seize control amongst it. If he believes there might be a rift in your marriage-”

Ned and Cat both look uncomfortable at this cold calculation of their situation. Things had been smoothed a bit since they had returned, but it was still not completely healed. 

“Then I feel like he might get cocky and I feel I could take advantage of that.”

Catelyn’s eyes stay on her daughter. She speaks of the other man in such a manner that she wonders what he was to her in her other life. She’s so guarded about it. 

Well, it seems they’ll find out eventually. 

**Over the Wall**

“That sword has a name you know?”

Ygritte glances at the sword in her hand and then back at Jon. They’d been sparring outside the cave when he’d volunteered that bit of information, after she’d told him that she’d taken to calling her axe Wild Thing. She uses the sword well enough, but goes back and forth when they spar, and she says she thinks she prefers the axe.

“Did the tree tell you that?”

Jon nods. Truly, he had been mostly kidding when he’d asked, but then the weirwood showed him .

“It’s called Dark Sister, it was Visenya Targaryen’s.”

“I guess it’s good to keep it in the family again.”

Jon feels his neck flush, but doesn’t respond. Ygritte doesn’t know too much of the baggage that came with the knowledge that he was a Targaryen, and he is grateful she never feels the need to make jokes about him marrying his sisters. 

“One of your sister’s liked swords right? Maybe you should give it to her when you see her again.”

Arya. She’d been eleven with the face of twenty when he saw her last. The tiny sword he’d had made for her all those years ago. She’d be seventeen, or close to, now, he thinks, the blade probably long outgrown. He hopes she still uses it. 

“Maybe I will, but for now, you keep it. Wild Thing won’t do a thing against a walker.”

She nods, in understanding. Some of the Others have wandered past the cave entrance, alone thankfully, seemingly. They take turns leaving the cover of the wards to pick them off, though more of them always seem to find their way again, seemingly heading for the Land of Always Winter. 

Rowan had advised him some moons ago, for him to ask the weirwood to show him how the others came to be. When it was done, Jon had turned to her in horror. She had merely let her head drop in shame, and he found he had no words to rebuke her. 

“We should go back inside,” Ygritte interrupts him, “The sun’s getting low.”

When they return to the camp, they are surprised to find the others crowded around the fire, Gilly sitting across from Aemon, with an incredibly bewildered expression on her face. 

“Sweetheart,” she starts, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Aemon has been talking for years, in full sentences too. His little voice is clear. 

“Why don’t you call me Sam anymore? It was my name.”

“When did this start up?” Jon asks Gilly, when she turns to greet him. 

“I found him wandering by the roots of the weirwood earlier,” Gilly admits, “I have before. I find him there a lot actually, pretending to talk to it, like you do.”

Jon feels a queer sensation in his stomach. Rowan seems to have a similar thought. 

“I’m not sure he was pretending.”

Jon turns to Rowan in shock. 

“How could he- it took you so long to even teach me simple words.”

“Children are far more adept at learning any sort of language than adults are,” Rowan muses, “A child raised in an environment where they constantly hear more than one language picks them both up with ease.”

She reaches and pats Aemon’s hair. 

“And perhaps your son is just very clever at picking these things up.”

“But-” Jon’s mind is racing. He can’t understand why the boy would think his name was Sam. The only Sam he can think of even is the fat boy from the watch. 

“I think we are discovering more about the nature of a tree’s memory than was known before.”

Jon thinks on it. 

“You think the weirwoods still remember the life you had from before.”

“It makes sense truly, the weirwoods know nothing of time, of past or of future. It’s why they can show you so much of the world.”

Ygritte bursts into the conversation. 

“I smashed my skull against the dead stump of the one above us,” she recalls, “That’s when I remembered my before life.”

Rowan’s face turns reverent. 

“There’s a reason my people treated the weirwoods as gods. They certainly have sight beyond what either of our people could understand.”

Jon has plenty of time to muse on this, as he eats his supper of venison broth with moss. 

Later that night, he leans forward and presses a kiss to Ygritte’s shoulder. Satisfied that she’s asleep, he quietly stands and pulls his boots on. 

He can get to the roots of the young weirwood without even a light now, but he brings one anyway just to be safe. Sitting beneath it in the night is eerie, but he still wants to do this. 

Touching the base of the tree, he asks it of Samwell Tarly, now.

With his first glimpse, Jon laughs. Sam at the Citadel, sent to train to replace Maester Aemon. It made perfect sense, and he supposes Thorne might have been far too pleased to get rid of him. And even if Sam had resisted, hadn’t wanted to leave the wall under siege and one of his only friends lost on the other side, he would have adapted. He would have found himself in his element. 

Jon takes a break after, and with a deep breath, he tries now. He asks of Samwell Tarly, before. 

He sees some the same, of Sam in Oldstown. But to his shock, he sees Gilly with him, and her child. None of her sister’s are there, but both of them seem quite fond of Sam. 

He laughs. Sam was just the type of person who could wander himself into finding a woman and child, and also find himself in not one but two roles that demanded celibacy. 

In some of what he sees though, he sees himself, and it’s the strangest thing that’s ever passed through his mind. Jon hasn’t looked at his own face in ages, and has no idea if he resembles this vision at all. He cut his hair and beard when they became cumbersome, but other than that, he has no idea of his own appearance, or his own demeanor. 

He’s jolted back from the vision to discover Ygritte has followed behind him. 

“You’re a right fool Jon Snow, if you think I can sleep without you grinding on my arse.”

He rewards her with a sheepish smile as she sits beside him. 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she starts, “Coming out here, to ask that thing about your last life, since you can’t remember.”

He laughs. He supposes he is not a subtle person. 

“I wasn’t actually.”

That takes Ygritte back. 

“I thought about it, and I might if I end up feeling like I really need to know something, but...I think I’m better off not remembering. I don’t think I’m the same person I would be from then.”

Ygritte’s face following this is hard to read. 

“I’m not sure you are either.”

She bites her lip before her next words. 

“I would have said before that I was in love with you, that that was why I ran so furiously into the battle where I died. I would still say I love you, but it’s different now.”

She takes one of his hands and presses it to her chest over her heart. 

“Out here, I actually feel like I know you. I watch you with Rowan and the other women and it’s like you’re unburdened. You barely spoke of your family before, now I feel as though I’ve met them. Out here I’m not worried if you’re still a crow, and you’re not worried that I’ll stab you in the back for a lark.”

“Much.”

She snorts. He hasn’t worried about that in ages. 

“I may not be able to say I knew you before,” Jon responds, “But out here I can say I trust you to have my back.”

He reaches out, and slowly pulls her onto his lap, one hand winding it’s way through her bright hair. 

“And if you want the honest truth,” Ygritte mumbles, her voice muffled, “I can tell being up here is good for you. You don’t brood nearly as much.”

That makes him laugh, and they sit together like that for a while, before stepping gently along the cave to rejoin the group. 

That night, Jon dreams of birds and catapults. He can’t even begin to make sense of that one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a small reference to one of my favorite fantasy novels in this chapter, extra points if you spot it!


	21. Chapter 21

**The Bite**

Sansa’s not overly fond of boats, but she enjoys the sight of the winter seas and the smell of the salty air. Catelyn holds up much the same, staying still and in their cabin as much as possible.The pair of guards that travel with them have both haven’t been at sea before, and their transition is not exactly smooth. Even well-behaved Lady whines and turns around constantly in the metal cage up on the dock she had to be coaxed into. 

“It’s only a few days, girl,” Sansa had assured her, and you won’t have to stay in there any longer.”

The voyage is actually quite dull. None of the rest of the crew give the two of them any notice other than the occasional “milady”. And so after a day or two Sansa finally asks. 

“Mother, what was Aunt Lysa like as a girl?”

Catelyn’s face is faraway, caught up in the past. 

“Shy. Timid. If she was in trouble with our father, she would run and hide. Some part of me wonders if she’s still doing that, staying up here in the Vale all the time.”

She looks at Sansa’s face, seeing the pinch of her lips. She sighs. 

“You can say what you’re thinking. I’ve listened to what you’ve said over the years. I know my sister isn’t well. I should have pushed more to understand her emotions when father betrothed her to Jon Arryn.”

“If you wrote to grandfather, he would probably tell you.”

Hoster Tully is still alive now, but letters have come periodically that his health is failing. Catelyn has longed to visit, but not felt she could leave Winterfell. 

“Do you know?”

Sansa bites her lip before speaking. 

“Petyr Baelish got her with child, and grandfather tricked her into drinking tea that bled the pregnancy. He married her off to Jon Arryn because he had no heirs and she was apparently proven fertile.”

Catelyn’s gasps don’t pause Sansa’s words. Her face is contemplative. 

“I wonder if maybe that’s why she lost so many children over the years. And Robin’s so sickly...I pity Aunt Lysa, I really do, but it’s not the good kind of pity.”

“You told us…”

Sansa nods. 

“She poisoned Jon Arryn on Littlefinger’s suggestion. She did it because all these years later, she was still...obsessed with him. Not that it would have mattered, he only ever had eyes for you.”

Catelyn opens her mouth as if to protest, but from all the years, she can’t fight Sansa’s take on any of her perspective. And try as she might, Sansa still can’t tell her anything. She can’t tell her mother that despite Littlefinger’s decade long obsession with her that after her death he still managed to almost immediately project his affections onto her daughter.

“And all of that, all of it caused so much of this whole damn mess. I wish Father had told you about Jon from the beginning, but I can’t even imagine the mess there would have been if you accidentally let something on to either Lysa or Petyr.”

And as so, their voyage continues in silence. 

Getting off the ship in Gulltown is a relief, but as they approach the Eyrie Sansa feels her heart skip beats and catch in her throat. She remembers the last time she was here. Seeing the craggy mountains poking up out of the ground puts her right back into the young girl who was certain so recently that she was safe but was slowly coming to the realization that she was just as unsafe as before. 

The snow is packed tightly enough that travel isn’t too difficult. It’s terribly cold, but the sky is quite clear.

The easiest way up is still by mule. It takes Sansa longer than she’s proud of to recognize the girl leading them up the path, to place the face of one of the friends she had made during her short stint as Alayne Stone. 

“Mya,” she mutters. It must be a bit louder than she’d intended, because the guide turns her head back. 

“Did you say something milady?”

Sansa quietly shakes her head. 

She slows her mule so she’s beside her mother. 

“I didn’t know her too well before, I knew she was a Stone, but I never saw….”

Catelyn’s face is confused. After a breath, Sansa explains. 

“She looks just like Gendry.”

Maybe one of these days, she’ll be able to tell Mya how lucky she is to be out of King’s Landing. How lucky she is to be alive.

For now they have bigger fish to fry.

**Winterfell**

Bran’s chest clenches every time he thinks of Septima’s journey. He had labored over the note he had tied to her leg for so long, in hopes of delaying having to send her. She’s the strongest of them, with the most stamina, but when he set her off, he still feels his gut twist in fear for her. 

He’s clearly still caught up in this when Robb has to swat his hand at dinner to get his attention. He’s still got half a piece of ham stuck with his fork. He glances around and all the others have left the table already. 

“Sorry. Aren’t you usually gone by now?”

Robb sits beside him backwards on the bench, stretching out and resting his shoulders against the table.

“Father’s back to doing petitions as Lord, so I’m taking advantage of the chance to not do anything.”

Bran sticks his last bit of ham in his mouth, chews and swallows. 

“You should come with me out to the training yard, Arya was going to challenge Brienne now that the weather’s clear.”

Robb smiles. 

“Will that be a good show?”

Bran grins in return. 

“Arya just wants someone who won’t hold back on her.”

This is the truth. Most of the Free Folk favor bows and melee weapons over swords, and Robb and Theon are never going to fight her with all their strength. 

Watching her get to go toe to toe with Brienne is a joy. Bran seeing her smile like she is is a very rare chance. 

Her and Brienne swing and parry and the steel of their swords sings out in the winter air. They don’t fight the same at all, Brienne with solid hits and an unmoveable stance and Arya with fluidity and misdirection. By the time Arya loses grip on her sword and yields, she’s sweating and panting, and grinning like a madman. 

There’s a group gathered to watch. Even Ned has taken a break from petitions to watch his youngest in her element. Once the fight is over, most of them shift around, disappointed. Shireen bursts forward to congratulate Brienne, and Robb quietly takes up his sword to ask for comments. 

Bran slowly makes his way up to where his father stands and watches. They haven’t had much time to talk, alone, since the group had returned to Winterfell. Bran still sometimes wondered if he was the Stark the most distanced from Ned. Even his memory of him before had faded some, having not seen him since before his fall, and having been so much younger than the others. 

“How are you holding up?”

Ned’s face is a swirl of emotions. Joy at being home, uncertainty because of what he’s missed, confusion at what he does not understand. 

“Every time I turn around there’s something else. I’ve never even seen Arya fight with a full sized sword before, only than skinny one Jon gave her.”

Bran smiles. Arya had mentioned to him once that she was very glad Ned was gone when she and Meera had come back in with Osha and she’d been covered with blood. She hadn’t wanted him to see her like that. 

“She still uses it sometimes. It suits her, she knows she’s not going to be stronger than most opponents, so she compensates by being faster, harder to hit and less predictable. “

There’s a pause. Bran hoists himself up to sit on one of the posts of the low fence separating the training yard from the areas around it. 

“I used to take pride in knowing every member of my household,” Ned admits, “Now everywhere I go I see faces I don’t recognize.”

“I recognize most of them,” Bran comments, “You can always just ask, you’ve been gone nearly four years and we’ve taken in so many of the free folk into service.”

Ned’s eyes become nearly frightened at this moment. 

“I’m worried every time we get ravens that there will be something from King’s Landing. When I was Hand I was able to keep all word of the fleeing free folk we’re sheltering from Robert’s ears, and everything about what’s happening over the wall. If anything reaches Joffrey’s ears I can’t promise I can stop us inviting his and Tywin’s wrath for doing this without consent or knowledge of the crown, ignoring what might happen if Stannis finds out.”

Shit, Bran thought. That hadn’t occurred to him. So much of this had been so much easier before, when the North had declared its independence and hadn’t had to take into account the opinions of any King other than the King in the North. 

Ned shakes his head suddenly.

“Never mind that right now though, I need to go and retrieve Robb. We need to go over plans before we set out for the Dreadfort before supper comes and it begins to get dark.”

Bran nods. 

“I’m heading to the smithy. Do you have anything I need to pass on to Gendry?”

“What’s he working on now?”

“The next shipment of dragon glass isn’t due for a few more days. I know he said he wanted to work on our armor supplies as well.”

“Good. Tell him to keep on it.”

When Bran enters the smithy and is hit in the face by the blast of hot air, Gendry appears to already be on it. He’s punching out a sheet of chainmail at the moment. Bran nods in greeting, and Gendry returns it silently. 

Meera’s sitting on one of the benches, a pile of cut ash and oak branches at her feet. Handles for spears, axes and arrows, slowly appeared from the wood working in her hands under her knife. Lots of arrows, as many as she could cut. Gendry, she had assured Bran before, did not have the patience for woodwork, it was a slow, careful process.

He is surprised, however, to see Shireen sitting on her right side. She had been spending most of her days in the library. 

She too, waves in greeting, as Bran sits on the bench to Meera’s left, feet resting beside the pile of wood. 

“I was asking Gendry if he’d met anyone else in my family,” Shireen explains, her voice cracking only a little. 

Gendry pauses, to nod. 

“Told her I met her father only once and he was fine with letting the red woman sacrifice me the same way she did her.“

Bran cringes. Gendry seems to agree, the haunted look in his eye telling. The first time he had seen Gendry at Winterfell, the raven had summoned his vision of that night at Dragonstone. It was one of the many he wished he could wipe from his memory. 

“He also told me that Ser Davos saved his life then.”

Gendry nods, and Bran becomes very glad that Davos could still be counted among their numbers. 

Meera fishes around trying to find him a spare knife, but then pauses and hands him hers and stands when Gendry asks her for a favor. 

“What are you doing?”

Gendry’s holding a piece of string and making marks on a piece of parchment. 

“Since I’m starting with the armor stores, I wanted to make Arya a hauberk. Plate armor is better in a joust, but unless you’re going up against clubs and solid blows chainmail works fine, especially over leather, and it won’t slow her down. Meera’s close enough to her size I can use her to make the measurements before I punch out the chain.”

Bran smiles. 

“So I take it you’re not going to be foolish and try to convince her not to fight this time?”

Gendry snorts. 

“I know her well enough to know that that would be a pointless exercise that would just make us both angry. But I won’t send her out ill-equipped, and I would feel much better knowing I made it.”

Good, Bran thinks. That is what this whole situation has been for. None of them will be going into this ill-equipped.

Meera finds a smaller knife, and so Bran joins her in cutting down the wood, and beneath them forms a thick pile of tinder to feed the forge. Gendry and Shireen continue chatting amiably. Watching them, Bran can note the family resemblance, though it’s more in mannerisms than in their facial features. 

Quietly, Meera asks him. 

“Is Septima getting close?”

Bran nods. 

“I let her rest until dinner time. She should go over before supper. Once that happens, I’m going to stay in her for a while.”

Meera nods. She sets down her knife briefly, and reaches out to grasp his empty hand in hers. 

“I’ll stay with you.”

He slips in and out of Septima a few times throughout the afternoon. When she finally reaches Eastwatch-By-the-Sea, Shireen has quietly slipped out to return to the library. 

Bran takes a deep breath. 

“This might take a while.”

Gendry nods. 

“I’ll bring you some supper if you’re going to stay.”

And then he leaves Bran and Meera alone. 

“You’re doing fine though? You don’t want to wait until after supper?”

Bran shakes his head. 

“I’d rather just get this done.”

With a smile that’s only a little sad, she leans in and softly kisses the corner of his mouth. And with a stupid grin, he leans back to the wall, and lets himself drift off. 

And with that, Meera is alone. She isn’t idle though. Once she finishes splitting up the branch she’d been working on, she fishes out a paper and quill. 

She hasn’t even written a single line, when the door opens. Meera is surprised to see Ned enter, holding a plate of leftover bread and fried ham.

“Lord Stark,” she addresses, standing to take the plate from him. 

“Gendry said the two of you were still out here, thought I should check up.”

Meera turns to look at Bran, his eyes still all white. Ned looks discomforted, and she completely understands. 

“He’s over the wall, trying to find Jon.”

Ned doesn’t know quite what to say. Meera looks him straight in the eye for a moment.

“We think that if something had happened to him, the wolves would have known. Summer knew when something happened to Gray Wind before.”

Summer, who has been dutifully following up behind Bran wherever he goes, to catch him if he trips. 

Meera sets the plate beside her on top of an empty crate. 

“I’m writing to my father,” she tells Ned, “To see if he thinks we have the resources to take any non combatants. We did before.”

That was what the crannogmen had spent most of the Long Night doing, sheltering those who tried to flee south and became lost.

Ned nods, 

“Good. tell me what he says. Tell him just to write to me, it would be nice to hear from an old friend.”

His eyes stay on Bran and her questioningly, Meera suddenly aware of how closely together they’re sitting. Maybe she ought be a little embarrassed, but she’s not. Touching Bran has become second nature again. She remembers back in the cave, the day he had realized his hair had started to get tangled among the leaves and branches, and sheepishly asked her to cut it. And that afterwards, she had realized it hadn't felt strange at all.

Quietly, she tells Ned, 

“You don’t need to worry too much about the two of us. We’re not too great putting things into words. Feels like if we do, something will come by and break it.”

The feelings are old, she thinks to herself, even if the kissing is new.

Ned smiles, and Meera recognizes the same sad smile she must have had on her own face often. 

“Perhaps I should write to your father too.”

Meera feels the corner of her mouth turn up involuntarily when she recognizes his intent.

“I think he would like that.”

And with a tilt of the head in Bran’s direction. 

“And don’t worry about your son, I’ll make sure he comes back.”

The first time Bran wakes up, Meera’s covered her legs with a blanket Gendry keeps stashed in the little shed behind the smithy. 

Bran starts to say something, but his stomach growls before he can speak.

Meera glances up, and then points at the platter

Bran takes a piece of ham.

“I just need a break.”

“See anything interesting?”

Bran chews his piece and swallows before responding.

“Septima’s flying northwest through the haunted forest. She’s passed where Craster’s Keep was and is near the Antler River. When she gets to the Fist of the First Men, I’ll have her turn East. If she gets all the way North…”

He trails off. All the way north she’ll have to pass back down through Thenn and far too close to the Land of Always Winter.

“I haven’t seen much of anything. Snow, trees. The villages I’ve seen are empty. A couple areas look like they’ve been burned, like a fire for corpses got out of control until it burned itself out.”

“Have you seen any….”

After a long moment, he says. 

“Now so far...If I’m not back by midnight, shake me until I come out. Don’t let me forget I’m actually going to need to sleep tonight.”

It’s not midnight, but it’s close when Bran suddenly shudders back to life. Meera had been one inch away from dozing off herself when his sudden movement rouses her. 

“Bran! Are you alright? What did you see?”

She places a hand on each side of his face in an attempt to steady him. When he finally opens his eyes, they’re red and wet with tears. He reaches out to grasp both of her arms. 

“You’re not going to believe this.”

**Over the Wall**

Gilly sits with Jon and Rowan sometimes now. She makes many marks on her map now. Rowan some time ago claimed Jon knew most of the words she could teach him, and now all he could do was learn to speak them in his own voice. She seems pleased to have something useful to do, having been increasingly emotionally volatile since the revelation about the tree’s memory. Her son insists on being called Sam now, he won’t hear any different. 

Once Gilly told Jon when the three of them were alone that, “Perhaps Aemon was never his name anyhow.”

Parts of Jon still desperately wants to ask Rowan what her ultimate plan for teaching him all of this is, but watching her, around the fire, beside him in the snow, he’s beginning to wonder if she even really knows. 

He asks the trees about the Others now. There aren’t many wildlings left in the north, Jon discovers. Hundreds, thousands perhaps, have fled or tried to flee, and few remain. Not live ones anyway. 

The villages along the far western edge of the Frostfangs have been devastated. Bodies, human and animal both, slaughtered and arranged in symbols even the trees don’t understand. Even Ygritte quakes when he tells her of what the trees have told him is happening outside, his stories of places she might have once known devastated. 

And when the villages aren’t empty…

Sometimes it seems as though the white walkers appear out of the night itself, from the fog and snow. Sometimes when they appear the night seems to follow them like a perpetual cloud. Even if it’s just a few of them, they always seem a whole army. They’re ice blades cut down man and beast alike. 

And as for the Night King, Jon is only somewhat to see him ride upon an undead steed. The stories that the others could raise bears and wolves and other beasts as well as men has turned out to be true. And no one mostly bothered to burn their corpses.

“Rowan,” Jon finally asks one day, “You’re so sure that the Night King is trying to lead his armies over the Wall...but nothing we are doing here seems to be something that could stop that.”

“I don’t think it is something that can be stopped.”

Jon is taken aback. 

“Then what…”

Rowan’s smile is bitter. 

“I am the last of my kind. All I am trying to do is pass on the knowledge I have, to try and mitigate some of the damage I know is coming. These things you are learning are very old, and I would hate to see them lost.”

Jon’s insides twist. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but this wasn’t it. But watching Rowan, he cannot find the words to rebuke her. She reaches out and touches his hands. 

“I have given you what weapons I can. Knowledge, foresight understanding. The iron and dragonglass will prevent the long dead from rising. And that sword your girl found may be valuable as well. The tunnels will allow us to flee south with ease when the time comes.”

“Flee?” Jon asks, “How will we know when it’s time.”

Rowan reaches and tucks a bit of his hair behind his ear fondly. Her skin doesn’t feel like a human’s skin, but rather like something else Jon can’t put his finger on. 

“I feel that is something that we will become aware of very quickly when the time comes.”

She pauses for a long moment, her ears drooping and disappearing into her hairline. 

“I’m sorry if you feel I have misled you in anyway.”

Jon’s insides settle themselves. This has not been how he expected his life to go, before or after the great revelations his siblings had hoisted upon him. But…

“Thank you,” he tells Rowan quietly, “For never mentioning my name.”

It’s a short way of saying what he means. That she never spoke of him as something he couldn’t help. He wasn’t a bastard here, or a crow, or a Stark. Nothing, perhaps, except a human. The only standard Rowan held him to was her hopes for him, and she always thought he could achieve it. Maybe that’s what Ygritte meant by this place being good for him. 

After supper, he sits at the mouth of the cave, watching the sky. Ygritte quietly joins him. He looks at her, and starts to say something, but is interrupted. 

“Is that...a raven?” Ygritte asks. 

The large bird isn’t flying straight, but weaving back and forth. It finally settles on a branch of the illusory weirwood tree, and Jon swears it looks at him. 

And then flies straight towards him. 

Jon only manages to steel himself for a moment, certain he is about to feel claws dig into his face, when the bird, instead, lands neatly on his wrist, and shakes it’s foot. 

There’s a paper tied to it. Jon removes it, and unrolls the letter. This doesn’t make a lick of sense, that a raven could fly this far north, that it would. 

“Come home brother, if you can. The long night is coming, and we’ll need you by our side.”

Jon exchanges an astonished, emotional expression with Ygritte when he reads the words. 

“I’ll show Rowan in the morning. And we’ll go from there.”

That night, Jon has another dream. It’s not symbolic. He sees his uncle Benjen, cornered on the bank of the Milkwater, of a wight raising it’s ice blade to him. 

And of another shaking its head. And the rest surrounding him. 

He doesn’t see his uncle fall. But he sees him overwhelmed, and carried off.

The last Jon sees before he wakes is his uncle dropped on the frozen ground, at the feet of the Night King.


	22. Chapter 22

**The Eyrie **

Watching Robin trying to shoot a bow, Sansa is filled with a mix of annoyance and sympathy. She sees bits of Bran and Jojen in his jerky movements (though much less in his whiny voice). Though, she thinks, watching him slip his elbow and send the arrow soaring far too high, even Jojen’s a better shot than him.

“You’re dropping your elbow,” she says in an even voice from across the training yard. “Pretend you have a fence post under holding it up.”

The master-at-arms helping Robin ignores her words, before instructing him to do much the same as she said. His arm still wobbles. 

Silently putting aside the hood she had been stitching rabbit fur lining into, Sansa quietly makes her way to the chambers her and Catelyn had been put up in and retrieves her bow. She returns to her spot and continues her sewing until the master-at-arms leaves, dismissing Robin. 

Before the boy leaves, Sansa stands, nocks her arrow and looses it. She hits the target with ease. 

Robin looks at her funny. 

“How’d you do that?”

“Practice,” Sansa tells him, with an eyebrow raised. 

“They don’t teach girls to shoot.”

Sansa bristles. Some people clearly do. All the things Arya used to complain about are becoming more and more understandable. She tries to guide Robin’s words in another direction.

“Like I said, all you need to do is practice and you’ll get better. You might not be great but you will get better. My younger brother has a bad leg and can’t stand up for long periods of time, but he loves to shoot from horseback. My sister shoots like she was born with a bow in her hand. All of our brother’s learned as well. I didn’t want to be left out.”

She looks at Robin askance. He’s paying attention, but barely. Sansa does not envy his future advisors. 

“Do you ever feel left out, Robin?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re supposed to be Lord of the Vale someday. But do your mother ever ask for you to help her with petitions? Does she ever teach you anything about what you will be expected to do? Have you even left the Eyrie much?”

Her questions are pointed, and as she guessed, Robin’s face falters a little.

Sansa takes the opportunity to sling her bow over her arm, take the hood she was sewing and leave. 

When she re-enters the keep proper, Catelyn is helping Lysa with her hair, and Lord Royce is going over paperwork for the arrangements so that the guests might be accomodated. 

“May I be of any assistance?” she asks the older man. 

He shakes his head, 

“There’s no need my lady, you and your mother are guests. Where have you even been getting off to?”

“I insist,” she says, with a smile. He finally passes her the stack and she starts sorting through them. 

She chatters a bit with Lord Royce, talking about her excitement for the wedding. 

“I had to miss my own sister’s wedding, I’m glad to see this one. It’s been so hard, since Mother and Father…”

She trails off, deliberate, turning her head just enough to see Lord Royce take note of her words. She smiles, changing the subject.

“Are all of the houses of the Vale going to be present?”

Lord Royce nods, and Sansa notes he looks a bit put upon. 

“They’ve been chomping at the bit for Lady Arryn to remarry for years. She hasn’t done well by herself.”

“I noticed, she doesn’t seem happy at all. Do you think she is? She must love her son at least, she keeps him so close.”

Just as expected, she sees Lord Royce wince. 

She hears much the same when she goes amongst the other lords and ladies of the Vale as she assists in greeting their arrival at the Eyrie. They speak of eagerness to see Lysa remarried. There are other things they speak of too. Distrust of Petyr Baelish among them. 

“They all speak of his low birth,” she tells Catelyn quietly, as they return to their chambers to dress. The wedding is in the evening, and it’s barely midday. Lady pads behind the two of them as they walk and talk quietly. 

Catelyn sighs. 

“I understand, and I’ve come to hate myself for it. They seem him as seeking power, as obtaining his position through deceit and under-handedness.”

They’re right, Sansa thinks. And in her mother’s face, she again sees the shadow. The shadow of these things that she would have assumed of her own goodson. 

“Do you think you can do as I asked?”

Catelyn nods, her face faltering, if only a little. Sansa reaches out and squeezes her mother’s hand. 

“It’s not lying, none of it. Not really.”

Sansa is dressed in her finest gown, green edged in gold, Catelyn in a similar one, though more subdued. 

When they enter the hallway off the side of the High Hall, Lysa is already in her dress and cloak. Sansa can spy Littlefinger off on the other side, finishing his last preparations. And in the middle, Sansa notes, the Moon Door. 

Why in the world did that thing even exist? Sansa wondered. Was hanging not enough?

Sansa smiles widely when she approaches her aunt Lysa. 

“You look beautiful,” she tells her, reaching out to touch the edges of her cloak. What even to call it? She wonders, it’s not a maiden’s cloak. Westeros could really use better traditions for second marriages.

Lysa nods, and so Sansa prattles on. 

“You must be so excited, I can only imagine, and you’re marrying a man you’ve known nearly your whole life.”

There’s a flicker in Lysa’s eye, a flicker Sansa feels herself quake when she recognizes the spark. She saw it just the instance before Lysa had grabbed her before, and squeezed far too hard. Good, she knows that spark. 

In the corner of her eye, she sees Catelyn leading Littlefinger over by the arm. She sees Lysa see the two of them. 

“Mother spoke so often of the three of you being close as children. It must be so good to not have to be alone after your husband’s untimely death.”

Lysa’s eye begins to twitch. She grabs Sansa’s arm a bit roughly, but she can take it. 

“Come niece,” she says stiffly, on edge, “Let us join the ceremony.”

Sansa stands and she sees as Catelyn tilts her head up to kiss Littlefinger on the cheek. She watches, seemingly in slow motion, as Lysa’s face contorts, she watches as she rushes forward, grabbing at her sister violently. She watches her mother’s face twists with shock. She watches as Littlefinger’s eyes go wide and he tries to separate them. She hears shouting, from all three of them.

They are too close to the moon door, Sansa thinks. Far too close. It’s not open yet, but she suspects it will be. 

She sits on the ground, Lady at her feet, and waits. 

**Over the Wall**

Bran had scrawled more on the back of the note. Jon reads it to himself when they’re back in the cave and supposed to be sleeping. 

It should hurt, he thinks, learning that his brothers in black had decided he was dead. But, he reasoned, it had been years. It had been three to four times longer than he’d spent with the Night’s Watch at all since he’d disappeared. 

And it made what was coming easier to take, what he knew was coming as soon has he took the note from the raven’s leg and read its contents. 

The bird had followed him and Ygritte into the cave. Jon had never seen a bird act like that before, it had hopped from one spot to another, as if in awe of its surroundings. Then all of a sudden, something had disappeared from its eyes and it panicked for a moment until Jon found a stick and shooed it out of the cave.

This was what he was thinking about when he went to sleep and had his dream. 

In the morning, when he shows both to Rowan and she nods quietly, and tells everyone they have to leave. 

“Do you think it was prophetic?”

Rowan’s nod is gentler than her last ones, and more unsure. 

“I’m not sure if that’s the right word. Most humans who speak of green dreams speak of dreaming in symbols. Yours was very straight forward right?””

Jon nods, the images from his dream playing before his eyes, even as they begin to fade as dreams did. 

“Perhaps…”

“What?”

“Perhaps you understand these dreams more fully because you already speak the language.”

“Speak-” Jon is nearly speechless, “Rowan, are you saying you think green dreams are the weirwoods trying to speak to humans?”’

“It makes sense, too much,” she replies, “Especially knowing of the physical toll green sight takes upon the humans who have it. They are burdened with images that they don’t understand and have no ability to. Their minds are grappling with something they cannot reason and so the body revolts.”

Jon keeps his mouth shut. Nothing she says matters once they all begin to pack up and begin the journey south. 

Traveling through the tunnels under the earth is not exactly straightforward, but as they are free of obstacles, it is much safer and faster. They emerge at cave openings to set a fire and sleep, but can’t go all the way through without losing the protection of the wards at the far northern end. 

Even with Gilly and her sister’s maps, Jon’s never sure exactly where they are. After a little over a month’s travel, one of the caves opens up into a much larger space than the others have, revealing an enormous underground hot spring.

The other women squeal at the warmth and the chance to bathe properly, instead of out of a kettle. Jon sits quietly in one of the side pathways, allowing them some privacy. 

He gets a look as they all file in. It’s strange, Gilly aside, he’s almost come to think of them as a collective. He files off their names. Jyna, Nella, Ryta, Norea, Gilly (carrying Sam), Henneh. He sticks outside to give them privacy, wondering if there’s anyway for them to wash off what’s happened to them. They all seem to be happy with it, at least. 

After a bit, Ygritte joins him. She sits and he throws an arm around her idly. 

“I know where we are now.”

“How?”

She turns her head to look at one of the smaller paths off another side of the spring. 

“We’re along the Milkwater just south of the Frostfangs. This is where we took you to meet with Mance Ryder before. “

Jon frowns, 

“This place doesn’t look large enough for a big group of people to shelter.”

Ygritte shook her head. 

“I took you out here to try and tempt you away from your crow vows.”

Jon raises an eyebrow, his hand playing errantly with the ends of her hair. 

“And how did you do that?”

Her smile turns mischievous instead of melancholy, if just for a moment. 

“Stripped naked and went ‘want some?’”

Jon snorts loudly. 

“Guessing I did?”

“Well you didn’t really say yes or no, you just sunk to your knees and stuck your face between my legs…”

He laughs, and kisses the side of her face, with intent. He still doesn’t care for recollections of his previous life, and he hates the look on her face still. 

“That was the last thing I remember before I died,” she admits, “That I wish we had just stayed here.”

They can’t stay. They both know that. The dead are coming and the fate of everyone and everything. But once the others are finished, the two of them strip down and slide into the water to try and wash off some of their burdens. 

Once they are a bit sleepy and wrinkled from the heat, Ygritte pulls herself onto the edge of the spring to sit. And with an idle thought, Jon swims to her, gently pushes her knees apart, and buries his tongue inside her. She wraps her fingers in his curls and pulls them, with rather less force than her someone hearing her moans would probably think.

He’ll call it recreating a good memory. 

After they dry off, redress, and rejoin the others, Jon asks her. 

“How far are we from the wall?”

Ygritte chews her lip. 

“On the ground, I’d say a moon’s turn. Down here? No mountains to cross, no snow, no bears, but not exactly a straight line of a journey either. Maybe a week less than that I’d say.”

The closer they get to the wall, the narrower the passages become. Much of the rock turns into tightly packed earth, and they can only go through one at a time. 

Jon asks Rowan, 

“How are we supposed to get over the wall once we reach it? The tunnels will be sealed and guarded at all the castles.”

Ygritte had told him many times of when the wildlings had climbed the wall before. How one off placement of her pick had caused a crack that nearly killed them both. He hadn’t been looking forward to it, but more than that, he knew it was impossible. He could have probably carried Sam on his back, but there is no way to get all of Craster’s girls over, even one at a time. 

Rowan shakes her head. 

“We aren’t going over, we’re going under.” 

Even in the extremely low light, Jon can see Ygritte’s face twist. 

“Fuck me,” she mutters under her breath. When Jon looks at her quizzically, she replies. 

“Story goes that three thousand years ago, brothers Gendel and Gorne discovered a huge network of caves that caverns that led one into another. They even found a passageway under the Wall and tried to use it to invade the North. They failed, and that path has been lost since.”

Jon’s face pinches, 

“I guess we’re lucky Mance and the others never found it.”

“They wouldn’t have,” Rowan interjects. “These caverns were why I came south in the first place. I had to dig many free of earth, a few had even collapsed completely. But the way should be clear for us now.”

Jon’s sick of the torch-lit darkness. He’s sick of the damp air. 

And so, when Rowan finally beckons them to the end of the largest cave opening they’ve seen in days, he squeezes Ygritte’s hand, and they guide the others out into the light. 

And Jon takes the first breath of northern air he has breathed in years. 

**Winterfell**

The morning comes that Robb and Ned must leave for the Dreadfort. They are both reluctant, as Sansa and Catelyn have according to raven, just docked in Gullstown. 

Bran claps one hand on his father’s shoulder. Standing straight, he’s up to his brow. 

“It’s not for too long, and we still have three Starks in Winterfell. “

Most of the others leave for breakfast, but Gendry lingers behind. 

“Wanted to say thanks again, to the both of you.”

He shakes both of their hands, and for the first time, looks them square in the eye as he does so. 

He’s the last one to breakfast, and when he gets there, it’s just the small group around a pot of porridge. Rickon’s feet swing, unawares, while Meera and Arya whisper quietly. Bran’s head is resting to one side on the wood of the table. 

“Is he…” Gendry asks, trailing off. They’ve all been paying close attention to what Bran tells them when he wargs, since the day when they’d woken up to the news that Jon was alive and unharmed, though they were not as shocked by the knowledge that one of the children of the forest had survived as Bran and Meera were. 

“No,” Meera replies, not even looking up, “He’s sleeping. We were up late again last night.” 

Gendry raises an eyebrow in her direction and Meera rolls her eyes. Jojen told Bran the truth all those years ago, that it wasn’t safe to warg alone, especially not for as many hours as he had been doing it. And if the best way to bring him back to earth afterwards involved her getting to discover the noise he made when she sucked on his earlobe, well, call it a bonus.  
Her next words are quiet though. 

“There are big groups of others gathering far north towards the Lands of Always Winter,” Septima had flown past several, all heading in one direction. 

“At least they aren’t coming south yet,” Arya adds grimly, though she is as apprehensive as the rest. 

Gendry spares a glance down the empty table. Rickon had managed to already disappear without a word.

“Where’s everyone else got off to?”

“Rickon ate two bites and ran straight off,” Arya tells him. She doesn’t let on how much she worries about her youngest brother, tall now, but still without even the traces of a beard. How she sees the wildness in his movements and fears he may slip away. He’s the best archer they’ve got after her and Meera. 

“And Theon left without eating.”

Gendry snorts at that. No doubt off trying to flirt with some of the Free Folk women. He’s having both more and less luck with them then with the other women from the north. More willing, without worries of their virtue, but also less likely to be impressed by him and his stories of being Ironborn. Gendry wonders if perhaps he just likes the challenge. 

“And Jojen and Shireen left for the library already.”

That was expected, they did that pretty much every day. Shireen admitted that books aside, she is still unused to the cold of the North. 

Right now, despite her cloak and the walls, she is still shivering under her cloak. 

“Does it get this cold where you’re from?”

Jojen shrugs over the lip of his book. 

“I don’t remember the last winter, I was too young. I know it gets cold enough that most of the bogs freeze over, but it’s pretty hot in summer, and I don’t think it ever gets hot here.”

He goes quiet again, and Shireen pouts a bit. She likes talking to him, but he’s so quiet most of the time it seems like she has to drag the words out of him. Or maybe he’s just comfortable being silent a lot of the time. She spares a glance at the book he’s going through.

“You’re reading about diseases and healing?” she asks, with a grimace.

“Lots of things about caring for wounds in here,” Jojen replies, “That could end up being really important.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. 

“And it’s sobering to realize how likely that I probably would have died if I hadn’t been born the son of a lord, even if a minor one. There’s nothing in here that could change me, but I could have drowned or fallen from a horse, just because I would have been left alone all the time.”

Not even withstanding that others might not have even understood his visions. Might have thought he was possessed by something. 

Shireen’s silent. She hates how much she understands. She’s heard all the stories about what happens to most people with greyscale. Disfigurement sounding so minor in comparison to potential blindness, loss of appendages and madness before death. 

“When I got sick,” she says, slowly. It feels like a secret, even though it isn’t. “My father sent for any maester who thought he might be able to help. I don’t even know if it became known that they stopped the disease. Feels like the sort of thing that should be spread through all of the known world.”

She would have died, she comes to the dim realization. Had she been the daughter of a sailor or a crofter, or even a merchant. Maesters were under no compulsion to treat any but those in castles. Those who paid them.

She opens her mouth to say something else, when Jojen suddenly goes stiff and falls from his chair. 

Shireen knows she would normally be frightened, but she isn’t. Jojen had said he had fits when the visions came to him. She very calmly moves his chair and the stacks of books on the floor so that he doesn’t hurt himself. 

After only a minute or so, his jerking movements still. Shireen recalls Leeman, one of her uncle’s men. He had had a shaking fit after being ordered to stop drinking so much, and she’d seen how the maester laid him on the ground after. She remembers him doing much the same with men who had drank so much they passed out. 

When Jojen still, Shireen rolls him onto his left side, leg and arm bent, and one hand under his chin. She worries for a moment before he sputters and takes a deep breath.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, and starts to say something else when he reaches out and grabs her by the arm, frightening her more than the fit had. 

“Get the others,” he tells her in a voice far deeper than his normal one. 

“What did you see?”

He squeezes his arm tightly, and the look in his eye makes her words catch in her throat. She stands and instead of leaving, she pulls him up, throwing one of his arms over her shoulder to bear his weight, and half pulls his towards the library door.


	23. Chapter 23

**Over the Wall**

The lookouts on duty at the Shadow Tower that night were green boys, untrained. New recruits brought north as part of the aid provided by Stannis Baratheon. They knew rangers were being expected back, but not who or how many. That will be the excuse for why they didn’t recognize the strangeness of the men. 

Three figures approached, wearing the heavy cloaks of the Night’s Watch, scavenged from bodies. These hide their ice skin and their blue eyes. The figure in the middle flops, as though he is being held upright, which he is. 

The heavy cloak hides the blue mark on his face, the mark left by the Great Other upon him. It also hides his lips, sewn shut, so that he may not cry any warnings. 

They approach calmly. The lookout spies the cloaks, and blows his horn once. They open the gate. 

The group that comes to greet them notices the figure in the middle stumble, and call for more to help them carry him. Once they get him to the gate, one of them get a tiny peek under the hood and exclaims, 

“Benjen Stark! They all said you were dead!”

Benjen’s eyes go wild when he hears. He jerks his head so that his hood falls off his head, revealing his sewn together lips that he tries to cry out past. His words are muffled, but clear. 

RUN

The young watchmen freezes, but the others don’t see and continue carrying him. He’s stuck back when they carry him through the gate. He is stuck back by himself when one of the other figures pulls his sword of ice and runs it through his gut. 

The young man is brought to him knees. He hears the yells of the other watchmen, who leave the injured ranger and run to where he’s fallen. 

He sees Benjen fumble his hands, which he now realizes have been tied, for a dagger at his waist made of a material he doesn’t recognize. He cannot stand on his own, but gods be damned if he was going down without a fight. 

The last thing the young watchman remembers as his brothers try to help him sit up in the show is the dozen or so figures that appear from cover of the trees. Figures with deep, icy blue eyes. His vision goes blurry as his lifeblood drains from his wound, and he feels faint. 

He hears the horn again, once, twice. Three times. 

By the time the skirmish ends, with five more of his brothers dead, the young man is gone as well .He does not see, seven hundred feet above the Shadow Tower, the ice of the wall beginning to weep. 

_But that is the detail that Jojen Reed recalls most clearly in his vision of the attack._

_When he tells these things to the solemn faced group at Winterfell, that’s what causes his hysteria._

_“If whatever magics keep the wall solid are weakening…”_

_“Then the rest of it’s magics, the ones that keep the others from crossing over, are gone too,” Bran replies grimly, exchanging a pointed gaze with Meera. “I knew something like this might happen, but I was scared to say anything because we couldn’t stop it.”_

_“Bran,” Arya interrupts, cutting through his attempts at beating himself up. “How long do we have?”_

_He takes a deep breath before responding. _

_“After we crossed back over the wall, breaking the magic on it before...the dead broke through a year later.”_

_There’s a rapid intake of air from the whole group. _

_“We’ll be ready then,” Gendry insists, “A year is a long time. It’s still more notice than we had before.”_

_They all hope he’s right._

**The Eyrie**

Catelyn had been horrified at the state they found Lysa in. It had been too many years since she’d seen her sister, but now she was grateful for Sansa trying to warn her. 

Despite her steward assuring Catelyn that Lysa had finally ceased feeding Robin at her own teat less than two years prior, Catelyn was still deeply uncomfortable with her sister’s manner with her son. He was up to her shoulders, baby fat melted off his face. It was long, long past time for him to be taking more responsibilities as the heir. 

The first night, Sansa had quietly questioned the Maester about Robin’s health. She feigned concern, concern that Catelyn could be sincere about. The Maester had shaken his head a bit. 

“I finally convinced Lady Arryn to stop feeding the boy herself, but his fits have continued. Lord Baelish has been having me give him doses of sweetsleep more and more often. I know it’s just out of concern for the boy, but I really feel it’s getting too often.”

Catelyn has a bit of a shock when she hears that. Sweetsleep seems like a rather extreme treatment for a child. 

Despite the wedding still being upcoming, Lysa had cooed that Petyr had been taking care of so much for her around the Eyrie ever since the two had become betrothed. Catelyn felt a sour sensation in her stomach at the thought

She also cringes at the way Sansa flinches at Lysa’s touch. She can’t even tell if her daughter knows she’s doing it. . 

“It started early on,” Sansa admits finally, “She acted so happy to see me, but we hadn’t even finished our first supper together before she grabbed my wrist and accused me of lying, of being pregnant, or seducing him...I think I realized then I wasn’t really that much safer here than I was in King’s Landing.”

Catelyn wonders if her daughter even feels safe now. 

With all the preparations, Catelyn finds her mind drifting back to her own wedding. She had been so caught up in herself, her grief over Brandon, her apprehension over marrying a man she’d never met. She hadn’t spared Lysa any feeling over marrying a man she’d barely met who was more than twice her age. 

Sansa’s assessment still tugs at Catelyn though. Seeing Petyr again, in clothes finer than he could have ever worn as a child, even with his hair graying, tugs at her too. She still feels deep inside the urge to hug him like she would Edmure. 

She does hug him when she greets the two of them, but Catelyn wonders if her arms feel stiff.

Whatever happened to the boy she had known?

When the morning of the ceremony comes, Catelyn brushes her sister’s hair and could almost pretend they were children again. She could ignore her sister’s thinning hair, and the lines and liver spots on her neck. 

She could also ignore the spiteful note in Lysa’s voice. The venom in every word she speaks about their childhood.

Catelyn squeezes Lysa’s shoulders. 

“I had almost begun to feel like these days were behind us,” Catelyn tells her wistfully, “I saw the first of my children wed and was beginning to feel myself very old.”

“I heard a bit about that,” Lysa replies, with a note of superiority in her voice. At least she’s speaking in full sentences though. “Such a shame, to have that blight on the family line.”

Catelyn fights the very childish urge to pull her sister’s hair, as well as the far more righteous desire to defend her daughter. She settles for squeezing her a bit more tightly, with just the tips of her nails. 

“It’s lovely that you’re getting this wedding all to yourself. The last one was hardly the most romantic of affairs.”

Lysa nods her head without really looking at anything.

Sansa merely nods when Catelyn tells her this. 

“This is the part no one ever talks about,” Sansa says in a small voice, “The end result of marriages arranged for the good of kingdoms and bloodlines and not for people. I don’t think you understand how lucky you and Father were.”

Catelyn swallows any objections she has to Sansa’s words. Another time perhaps.

“What have you learned?”

Sansa recounts the distrust many of the lords have for Baelish. The murmurs she’s even heard that he might be trying to take the title from young Robin. 

Catelyn sighs. 

“I imagine you’re going to tell me this will be easy?”

Sansa shakes her head. 

“It won’t be. It never is. But things are bubbling over, I imagine we won’t have to do too much.”

Sansa feeds her the plan, minor as it is, and they leave their chambers to find the bride and groom. 

Petyr is dressed in his nicest clothes, and Catelyn again has to squash the desire to tell him how nice he looks. She settles for dusting off his collar. 

“Seems like just yesterday we were just children,” Catelyn muses softly, “It all seemed easier then.”

Sansa was right, nothing she has said is untrue. 

Catelyn lets her hand linger. Lets her words linger. 

“Of course, Ned’s been good to me, but there are some days when he seems a total stranger…”

She lets her words linger again, before brightening. 

“Well, never mind all that, let’s get you to the Septon.”

When she leads him by the arm, she feels her stomach drop in anticipation. She sees Lysa standing with Sansa, in her gown and cloak. She leans up to press a kiss to Petyr’s cheek and murmur a few words of encouragement. 

The noise that comes from Lysa’s throat is nearly animal, and Catelyn feels actual terror when her sister lunges at them. 

She can only hear bits of their words, but Catelyn makes out “Always knew it!” and “Never should have let you convince me…” but she’s too busy trying to stay out of the way of Lysa’s slapping hands to listen much. 

“Convince me” gets Sansa’s attention, and she stands slowly, clutching something in her waist-pocket.

And in a flurry of movement, Catelyn sees Lysa open the moon door. 

She tries to object, tries to yell, to scream, to beg, to shake her sister to push them apart and make them talk, this is supposed to be their wedding day for heaven’s sake…

But Catelyn can’t react, can’t bring herself to raise a hand, even when Lysa grabs her roughly, dragging her to where the cold winter wind comes through the floor. Her face burns, hair whipping, and in what she fears might be her last moments, Catelyn tries to pray, that she might be forgiven.

Then there’s a howl and she feels her head slam against the ground. 

It’s a long moment before she can sit back up, her eyesight blurring for a moment. She touches the back of her head and her fingers come back wet. 

She sees Sansa standing across the from Petyr, holding a dagger. They are talking, him looking evasive, like he genuinely doesn’t know what to say. And Sansa, looking bored. 

At this point, Catelyn is dimly aware that the bottom of her dress is torn. 

She hears Sansa say “I’ve heard how much you value chaos, did you think yourself immune to it?”

And Catelyn hears another howl, before passing out. 

When she finally wakes, she hears Sansa crying. She tries to sit up and realizes they are no longer alone. 

Lord Royce is sitting beside Sansa offering her a handkerchief to wipe her eyes, which are ringed red and swollen. 

When Catelyn manages to pull herself to a sitting position, someone wraps a shawl over her and tells her not to talk for a little while. 

The maester has treated her head wound, and checked over Sansa before they start asking questions. Several other of the lords and ladies of the Vale are present. 

The words spill from Catelyn’s mouth with uncomfortable ease. She tells that when they had been waiting for Petyr to join them before heading to the ceremony, 

“I made an offhand comment about the maester mentioning giving Robin sweetsleep more often, all I meant was that I hoped his health improved…”

She makes eye contact with the maester, who suddenly looks troubled.

“Apparently Lady Arryn was not aware that her betrothed having you give Robin the medicine at all. I would understand her thinking Petyr had overstepped his role, but I’ve never seen her so angry…”

She sees the other lords faces suddenly show understanding. 

“She was incredibly protective of the boy,” Lord Royce comments, “You’ve seen, he’s all she had left of her late husband. If she had believed he was doing him harm…”

He clears his throat, and Catelyn can’t say another word before Sansa cuts in. Her face is still stained with tears and her voice warbles.

“She was so upset she started screaming at them both. I-I didn’t know what to do, it was so scary. But then Lysa grabbed Mother and Lady…”

Sansa shakes, her hands digging into Lady’s fur. The wolf sits neatly at her mistress’s feet, as though she were not the size of a small pony. 

“I think she just wanted them to stop fighting. She got between them, and Mother fell, and Aunt Lysa…”

A sob escapes from her throat. Catelyn tries not to let herself think it sounds practiced. 

“Petyr grabbed her when she fell. I guess he wasn’t strong enough to keep hold of them both, and they both...”

Catelyn eventually pieces together that the other lords were alerted by the sounds of Sansa screaming after she had passed out. They had found her with the moon door open, desperately holding Lady back and Catelyn on the ground with her head bleeding.

Eventually, satisfied with their answers, Catelyn and Sansa are dismissed. Before they stand to return to their chambers, Sansa asks, 

“What’s going to become of Robin? He’s lost two parents today.”

Lord Royce has an uncertain look on his face when he responds, 

“We’ll find him a guardian, and advisors. But as of today, that boy is lord of the Vale.”

As soon as they are out of earshot, Sansa’s first words are, 

“His first decree as lord should be to put a lock of some kind on that thing. It shouldn’t be able to be opened in anger.”

When they return to their chambers, Catelyn sits on the bed and slumps over. 

Sansa flutters about the room, gathering up some of their things so they can go home, but when she spies her mother’s face, she sits beside her, and rests her head on her shoulders. 

“Please tell me you don’t have any more plans hidden up your sleeves.”

There’s a long pause before Sansa answers, in a voice that’s only a little lighthearted. 

“Got an idea or two about how I could give Tywin Lannister a heart attack.”

Catelyn lets out a rough chuckle. 

Sansa’s next words are quiet. 

“I didn’t want Aunt Lysa to have to die. I knew she might though...he pushed her before. Swore he only ever loved you. If you could even call that love.”

Catelny lets out a sob. She knows Lysa would had earned her death by the laws of gods and man for the murder of her first husband, but she had been so deranged in the end...

Sansa takes a deep breath. 

“We protected our family. Robin will be much better off without his mother’s influence. And without the sweetsleep- you were right, it was having a horrible impact on his mind. Justice was brought for Jon Arryn. And Littlefinger will never threaten our family again.”

Sansa’s hand goes to the waist-pocket where the dagger is, and Catelyn realizes she must have confronted Petyr with it. The dagger that was used in an attempt on one of their lives. Part of her niggles to ask her what happened after she passed out, but deep down Catelyn knows she’s better off not knowing.

“Did he admit who it was for?” Catelyn asks. Sansa shakes her head. Catelyn reaches out to brush Sansa’s hair from her face. 

“Gods what could have made you into this?” she asks, mourning the little girl she had lost so long ago. 

“At some point, I finally realized no one was going to save me but me. “

Catelyn wraps her arms softly around her daughter’s shoulders. 

“It scares me a little, what you’ve become.”

Sansa’s reply is small, mouselike. 

“That makes two of us.”

**The Journey South**

Of the whole of the party heading south, the happiest to be out of the caves is undoubtedly Ghost. He can now run ahead ahead of them, in the snow, under the ice-laden trees. 

They can’t take the Kingsroad, Jon doesn’t know what would happen if someone caught them. He might still be taken as a deserter. If he was, then he would be taken to Lord Stark anyhow, but he has no idea what they would do to the women, and that frightens him.

The snow is heavy enough for camping to be difficult. They have no proper shelter and even starting a fire is trying. Jon is enough of a northerner to know to fear sheltering under snow-heavy tree branches, from the stories in his boyhood of the snow packs becoming heavy enough to snap branches and crush those sheltering underneath to death. 

Rowan helps them find caves in the lower mountain sometimes. She claims she can feel the lines of the earth under the snow. When they do, it’s sometimes dry enough to build a fire. The night’s they have to sleep outside, the only thing they have to keep them warm is Ghost. Those nights it’s a damn lucky thing they don’t all freeze to death. 

The only one not seeming to feel the effects of the cold is Rowan, who mostly keeps to herself, a little apart from the others, without even Ghost to shelter her. 

One morning when he wakes, he spies Gilly and the other women all in a pile, and feels a pang in his chest. He remembers when they were all younger, when Arya or Bran or Rickon would have a nightmare and he’d wake with them tucked into bed with him. Sometimes, in the darkest of nights, even with more than one. 

He longs to see them again. Now all he has Ygritte pressed into his front, acting as a barrier between him and others- and Ghost’s tail swishing occasionally hitting him in the back. 

It’s one of those nights, when the others have all drifted off, that Ygritte asks him, 

“Do you think there’s a place here for me, this far south?”

Jon is contemplative. Ygritte’s not really like any woman he’s ever met, even without the axe, or the sharp tongue, or laughing eyes. Deep down, Jon thinks she belongs in the north, the true north, the land of wild and snow. He thinks maybe he belongs there too. But those he loves are elsewhere, and what is he without them. 

“I don’t know. Not sure if there’s really places in the world for any of us, except the ones we make.”

She shifts, nestling herself closer under his arms, nose pressing at a point in his throat. 

“I like that,” she says, “in that case, my place is right here in the snow.”

After a few weeks journey, Gilly begins to develop a cough that leaves her lips blue. Ygritte watches her cautiously and warns Jon. 

“The damp is getting to her, and the cold is making it worse. We need to find proper shelter soon.”

“I don’t know how far away we are from Winterfell, and I don’t know if we would be safe stopping anywhere else.”

“Safe or not, we may have to risk it soon.”

When Gilly’s cough gets bad enough, the others have to take turns carrying Sam, who after his turn with the trees, has returned to his normal state of perfectly ordinary little boy. 

When Ygritte has him on her back, Jon hears her muttering encouraging words to him. 

“We’ll make it, your mum will be fine. And you’re a proper little man, this all will just make you stronger.”

She told Jon once that she had been taught that women who lay with their fathers or brothers would be punished with weak, sickly children. She said that Sam being normal and healthy was a blessing from the gods, a sign that Gilly and her sisters were now free of their tormenter for good. 

That’s what Jon thinks of the night that Ygritte gives Sam to Nella and tells Jon that he’s getting the same cough his mother has. 

“Have to tell you Jon Snow, not thinking too much of the south so far.”

They finally find a village. Thankfully, maybe, most of the buildings are empty. The villagers have likely moved into the walls of a castle for the winter. Jon searches the empty buildings for a sign of which one that is, Cerwyn, the Last Hearth. He doesn’t find it, but he finds a map showing they are only a days walk west of the White Knife, which means they are maybe a week away from Winterfell. 

But first, they take shelter long enough for Gilly and Sam to recover. The last night they remain, Ygritte manages to shoot down an unlucky hare, and they have a proper meal before they set out. 

It’s early in the morning before the day they’re set to leave, when Jon wakes to find Ghost on edge, pacing back and forth, eyes staring out into the forest line. 

“What is it boy?”

Ghost whines, and paws at the ground, before sending a wild howl to the wind. 

It’s only a bit of time, before Jon hears a howl in return. 

The group packs up to continue on their way. It’s maybe half a day, a clear day thankfully, when Ghost begins whining again, before running out in front. 

He paws at the ground again, turning in a circle. Once he does, another figure appears from between the trees. 

She was bigger than him now, dark gray with deep yellow eyes. The sight of a wolf as big as a pony yapping and rolling in the snow like a puppy brings joy to Jon’s heart. 

“Who is that?” Henneh asks him wide eyed. 

Jon smiles widely. 

“That’s his sister, and it’s been a long long time.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Dragonstone**

Tyrion doesn’t have the most extensive experience with queens. When the ruling monarch's consort for half of your life has been the sister who despises you, one learns to take even that experience with a grain of salt.

So, to say he’s apprehensive about meeting this so-called Dragon Queen, is putting it lightly. 

“Any word from King’s Landing as of late?” he asks Varys one day when they’re still waiting about the castle. The keep had been nearly deserted when the pair had made the journey. Stannis had taken a number of his men, and his wife as well, when he sailed north.

And many more of them had been pulled away, Tyrion learned, when the men from the Iron Islands had begun attacking Storm’s End. Despite their feud, Tyrion knew Stannis would consider it his duty to aid his brother’s men. 

Now the only people who remain at Dragonstone are the beleaguered castellan and a handful of household servants. These people hadn’t even spared Tyrion and Varys a second glance when they had arrived. It was nearly perfect. 

“Word is that our queen has given birth to a healthy baby boy. She has named him Gerold. The smallfolk have taken to calling her Good Queen Margaery, and her child the golden cub.”

Tyrion nods. It’s a good pick. Suitably kingly and honoring a Lannister remembered as clever and fair. There were too few of those lately. 

“Do we have any idea of what our impending visitor will mean for her?”

Varys’s expression is solemn. 

“One would not expect good things to come to a regent when someone who feels they have a birthright to the throne returns. “Usurper” is the word I would expect to hear thrown around.”

Tyrion takes a deep breath. Varys’s assessment is indeed accurate. 

“Whatever our dear queen’s cunning ambitions leading her to the throne, I must say her rule has been nothing but benevolent for nearly everyone. She shouldn’t be held responsible for the present or future behavior of her husband or his hand.”

“Do you think she will be?”

Varys smiles, though a bit uncertain. 

“Our queen is a clever woman indeed, though I do hope she’s not too clever by half. There are many stories that have made it across the narrow sea about Danaerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons. One tells that she had a husband and child, both of whom were lost to her. Others say that she believes herself to be barren.”

Tyrion is shocked by that. Targaryen or not, a royal needed heirs. 

“If I was still an advisor to the queen, I would suggest her best course of action would be to throw herself on the Dragon Queen’s mercy and hope they can find some common ground. “

That might be best. As hard as she worked to put herself on the throne, Tyrion can’t imagine Margaery giving it up easily. This is what he’s still thinking about when the wind begins to change, and he sees movement on the horizon over the water. 

Tyrion is awash as the creatures come towards land out of the mists. The stories could never do dragons justice. His imagination as a child had not been enough.

But his eyes are soon drawn away from the figures circling the skies. He doesn’t even catch a glimpse of their rider. 

He’s been distracted by the small fleet of ships on the bay below her. 

“Are...are those Ironborn ships?” he asks Varys.

Varys’s eyes are actually uncertain. 

“It appears they are. Perhaps this story will have a few more complications than expected. 

**Winterfell**

Robb, his siblings all muse, is quite possibly one of the only men in all of Westeros, who could go into a holding facility for a group considered ‘savages’ and come out with a politically advantageous betrothal.

They at least had notice, Ned having sent a raven with the news, before they returned so the rest of the Starks could react. 

The woman in question was named Val, she was Mance Ryder’s goodsister. Her own sister and goodbrother had been killed in one of the assaults on Castle Black, but her and a small group had managed to flee south, when they had been captured at the Last Hearth. 

_We know they don’t give her any kind of importance to her position, _Ned writes them. _They chose Mance to lead them, they didn’t choose her. Despite this, they do listen to what she says, and they seem to think we’ll lend her some kind of weight to her family connection. They think the alliance will mean more to us because of it. _

_I’ve spoken to Robb alone, he’s fine with this choice. He hopes she will get along with her as well. This could play a huge role when the rest of the seven kingdoms find out about the Free Folk coming south of the wall._

This is the first thing that’s come there way that has genuinely shocked any of them. 

Arya asks Bran if he remembered anything about Val from before. 

Bran frowns before answering “Not much really. She was blonde, fought with a dagger. She and Dalla were both killed when Stannis’s men ambushed Mance’s camp following the assault on Castle Black.”

Arya’s face is curious, a combination of concerned and apprehensive. 

“She better be worthy of him.”

Robb and Ned are still a few weeks from returning to Winterfell, so there’s not much to do but continue shoring up the weapon and armor stores, prepare the shipments of both to other holdfasts and continue training.

This particular morning, however, Arya doesn’t feel much like doing anything. So when most of the others are in the training yard practicing, she sits on one of the walkways looking down at them. 

After a bit, Meera comes and sits beside her. 

“Need a break too?”

Arya nods. 

“Sansa and Mother should be getting home later today. Thought I’d save my energy. “

Arya’s face looks pensive and after a moment, Meera asks. 

“Are you worried about your brother’s marriage?”

After a bit, Arya nods. 

“Robb getting married before led to disaster. He must have known it was wrong, marrying someone else when he was betrothed to a Frey. Betrothed for a fucking bridge. I was too, but I didn’t know that for years later, after I’d slaughtered House Frey.”

Arya suddenly shifts, and she wonders if Meera had ever been told that particular bit of her background. 

If she hadn’t been told, her face doesn’t show it. 

“If you’re expecting horror from me, you’re not going to get it. The Freys have been nothing but a thorn in my house’s side for generations. I’m actually a little bitter they’re alive again.”

Well at least there’s that, Arya thinks. 

“This, an arranged betrothal to someone he’s barely met for the sake of a politically necessary alliance, regardless if he was twice my age or a brute or we hated each other...this was the sort of thing I always thought was the future for me, and that it was set in stone. That’s what I grew up thinking marriage was.”

Meera purses her lips. 

“I always meant to ask what it was that made you change your mind about wanting to marry. Everyone here seems to think you had basically sworn to never do it.”

Arya laughs. It’s so strange in retrospect. 

“Honestly? When I was traveling north to return to Winterfell, I ran across a couple of Lannister soldiers. I was frightened at first- I’ve seen first hand how soldiers often treat vulnerable women- but they were kind. Shared their fire and their food with me. And one them- he kept going on about his wife at home. Told me about how they were expecting a child, and how he wanted a girl. And it- after everything? It sounded so nice. Peaceful. So different from what I always thought it would be and also nothing like the songs of romance Sansa loved. Being able to marry without worrying about politics must be one of the nice things about being lowborn.”

Meera’s lips quirk into a small smile. 

“I was always a little frightened of marrying myself. Not that I was worried about being sold off like you- no one bothers making political alliances with the crannogmen.”

“There are a few minor houses in the Neck aren’t they?” Arya asks her. She never spent much time paying attention in lessons, and Jojen and Meera don’t talk too much about the other people from their home. 

Meera nods. 

“We can’t just marry within them though, or we’d all be Targaryens by now. My mother isn’t of noble blood- I’ve seen how my parents’ marriage was written down. ‘Jyana of the crannogmen’.”

Arya files that little bit of knowledge away. She should ask Meera to tell Gendry that. Maybe they might even be able to meet her someday when this is all over. All these years and he still occasionally got attacks of insecurity because of his birth.

“But I had been raised that my duty was the carry on our house line, so I knew I would have to marry eventually.”

She makes a face. 

“Even though it was more likely I would have known the boy I would end up marrying since childhood, there was also always a chance I would have spent my whole life thinking he was a shithead. And while I didn’t really think I would ever be forced to do it, I knew I might have been pressured...especially if Jojen died young like many people seemed to think he would. I was sixteen when we left Greywater Watch before, and I thought it was a blessing that I got to put the topic off for a little while.“

Arya thinks a bit before she asks her next question. 

“When did you realize you and Bran were, I mean- you’re nearly as much older than him as Gendry is than me.”

Meera smirks. 

“More actually, nearly six years. Gendry and I have had a couple of conversations on this very topic - the two of us are actually only a couple of moons apart.”

She blinks a bit, lost in the past before continuing. 

“I’m pretty sure Bran was taken with me pretty early. Your brother wears his heart on his sleeve, he’s not good at hiding things like that. I tried to ignore it, because he was so young, and I was sure his interest would fade. But then time went on and we both got older and it didn’t seem like our age should matter as much as it did before.”

She blinks again, and Arya wonders if she’s blinking away tears. 

“After we fled, I pulled him until I couldn’t. He didn’t even wake up from the visions until I couldn’t run anymore. My legs felt like jelly and I could barely feel my feet at all. I fell and tried to get back up and then fell again. When I couldn’t do anything else, and I was certain we were going to die, I wanted to kiss him senseless. “

Meera’s eyes stare off, faraway, but she’s got a tiny smile as well. 

“And then when your uncle saved us, it didn’t go away. I thought that maybe when we made it back south things between us would...it seems like such a damned joke. That when I finally began to return his feelings, he no longer cared.”

Wiping her face and sniffing, Meera is suddenly desperate to change the subject. 

“I hope your uncle can make it back from the wall. He saved our lives, before, he deserves some happiness too.”

Their conversation is broken by the sound of a horn announcing an arrival. 

Arya pulls herself to her feet. 

“That must be Mother and Sansa.”

It’s not even been a whole turn of the moon, but seeing both of them again is fantastic. Even with both bits of news they have to break. 

Sansa looks as disquieted by the news of Robb’s impending marriage as Arya had been. Catelyn merely nods, acknowledging that it really was time Robb found himself a wife anyway. 

It’s after she leaves that Arya reaches for Sansa’s arm and holds her tight as she grits her teeth and mutters. 

“Robb’s entire future could hinge on this. If he- if she...I wish I had realized before what a bunch of bullshit the idea of marrying for the greater good is.”

Arya squeezes her arm. She’d always disliked the idea, but Sansa had first hand knowledge for how the resentment and anger these bonds caused could fester and grow and spill over. How they could transform into deceit and underhandedness and backstabbing. These could threaten the safety of the realm far more than by having one that was not united. As much as she could pray that this marriage worked out, she looked at every such possibility and wondered if it would breed another Cersei.

But when Arya tells her that the Wall had been breached by Others, than with nary a word, Sansa is all business again.

“Is Ser Davos at Winterfell now?” she asks. 

Arya nods, a little confused. She follows Sansa up to the little study in between all of the Stark children’s chambers. This was where the Septa had given the girls their lessons, and before, where Old Nan had kept an eye on them when they couldn’t be wandering about. Arya hadn’t spent much time in this room in years. 

“What are you-” she asks as Sansa rummages through one of the desks. She removes a letter she had stashed away. 

“Lord Tyrion sent me a contact to reach out to near Castle Cerwyn which could provide us with wildfire to use against the Others. It won’t be safe to use it once they get past the wall, so I should seek them out as soon as possible.”

Arya’s eyes go wide. 

“Wildfire doesn’t go out easily,” Sansa muses, “Even detonated over the ocean, it still burned, burned nearly all of Stannis’s fleet...I don’t think even the worst of winter blizzards will do much to its effects. I won’t risk the destruction of our home by burning it on this side of the wall.”

That’s what Sansa thinks on when she goes to Davos that night and before they prepare to leave in the morning. She sees the image in her head still of the strangely beautiful green flames, peeking in through the windows of the Red Keep. She also remembers the fighting men set on fire by it running, diving in the sea, trying desperately to put it out, screaming as they burned to death. 

She thinks this is what causes the haunted look on Ser Davos’s face when they mount their horses and set out the next morning. 

“I’m glad Stannis is at the wall,” Sansa tells him. “There’s not a lot of men I would trust with such a deadly weapon. Too many of the Night’s Watch have spent too long thinking that the Free Folk are the only enemy they are meant to be guarding us against. And they have been trained to not even think of them as humans- they might not think that it’s abominable to use such a weapon against something living. I believe Stannis does understand that.”

As long as Stannis doesn’t get stuck on something involving fire again, that is. 

Castle Cerwyn is less than a day’s ride in good weather, but in the snow they barely make it by nightfall. 

The guards who lead them to the guest house, Sansa recognizes, as Free Folk. They seem at ease too, but are both wary of her and Davos. Sansa wracks her mind, trying to remember if she’d heard any particular complaints from this holdfast about the decree regarding them. She can’t. House Cerwyn had suffered greatly under the thumb of the Boltons before the Long Night, and had barely been able to send any men to fight at all.

They go out early the next morning in search of the name in the letter. 

To say he is strange is an understatement. 

He is extremely old, older than the oldest men Sansa can recall meeting. He walks with a hunchback and his voice as a strange quality that makes Sansa think perhaps he has suffered some injury or illness of the throat in his time. 

Or, she thinks looking about his workshop, perhaps he drank some concoction he shouldn’t have.

Wisdom Othlelle keeps looking at her out of the corner of one eye and muttering. She sticks close to Davos for more than a few reasons. 

She also notices a few young men coming in and out of the shop and files them away in her mind.

When Othlelle inquires as to why they require the substance, Sansa plainly says. 

“So I guess you haven’t been hearing any stories of enemies of the north with a particular weakness to fire.”

Sansa and Davos pay him for his services, and he directs one of the younger men to prepare the shipment. 

Sansa looks him square in the eye. 

“And there won’t be any funny business with the transport. It will only go to the wall, and only be passed into the hands of Stannis Baratheon. I can’t imagine the Alchemist’s guild would think too highly of you training acolytes unofficially this far north.”

He seems taken aback by her tone, so Sansa hopes it’s enough for her words to make an impact. 

With that taken care of, Sansa and Davos mount their horses again and take off, hoping it’s still early enough to make it home by the end of the day. 

When they’re riding, the wind comes by quickly enough that Sansa wonders at the look on Davos’s face. He’s been moving slower lately, she’s begun to notice the lines in his face more. It’s mostly hidden by his cloak, but she thinks she sees a glimpse of-

When they stop to water the horses, she finally asks. 

“You look as tired as the rest of us are. Do you ever think about going home?”

His face is guarded still, but there’s a flicker that makes Sansa think she’s right. She reaches out to touch him on the shoulder. 

“It’s fine. You’ve done so much already. You helped get Gendry out of King’s Landing, you’ve spent all these years helping us evacuate the Free Folk to the south. You’re the one doing most of the coordinating with the other houses, not Robb. “

“How am I supposed to go south when I know what’s coming?” he responds, sounding slightly desperate.”How can I go be with my own family when I know I could be stopping someone else from losing theirs?”

Sansa shakes her head. 

“Talk to Father when he returns to Winterfell. You’re not technically in our service, you’re not beholden to any of us-”

“I’m beholden to you all far more than nearly anyone else in all of the realm.”

“And your wife and sons need you. You got them all back, you should spend every moment you possibly can with them, because they might not get you back again.”

Davos’s face falters, and Sansa decides not to push. 

“Like I said, we’re getting to the brink of war here, and you’re not a young man. Talk to Father.”

The horses are back at strength, so they remount and keep riding. The snow is blessedly light, and the sky remains bright.

They’re getting nearer to Winterfell, when Sansa’s horse spooks. 

“What is it?” she asks her, but only gets a ‘neigh!’ in answer. She tries to spur her on, but she balks. She turns her head to Davos, who’s own mount is acting strange too. 

Sansa hears a noise she can’t place, so she halts the horse and draws her bow. She hears the noise again, and turns, trying to spot it’s direction. 

Then the noise turns more familiar, it becomes a howl. 

A howl that heralds a rush in the snow covered brambles and a light gray figure appearing. 

Sansa sees Davos draw his own bow and has to shout, “Wait!”

She loosens her bow. 

“Ghost?” she asks. 

And watching his tail wag, she hears footsteps and more rustling. 

She sees another wolf appear across a clearing, and then another. 

And then a group of women. 

Well, women, and one man. 

Sansa lowers her bow completely. 

“Jon?”

She’d recognize the face anywhere. She remembers seeing it for the first time in nearly as many years before. 

She hastily stumbles off her horse and throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. 

“Sansa?” he asks her, sounding confused. “What are you doing out here?”

She pulls back to look at him, and then to look at the other women with him. 

They’re a motley bunch, dressed in ragged furs and carrying a strange assembly of weapons. And then Sansa spots one of the women, who’s huddling into herself and pale, and feels a pang of familiarity. 

“Gilly?”

The girls looks confused at her words, and Sansa steps back. 

“This is Ser Davos of House Seaworth. We were just finishing up some business before heading back- you’re all on the way to Winterfell right?”

Davos has already rushed forward to shake Jon’s hand firmly, with a bigger smile than Sansa’s seen in ages. Jon mostly looks dazed. 

“It’s good to see you again, Jon Snow,” Davos turns his attention to the women. “And you too ladies. May I ask your names?”

All of them answer, one by one. The last one is standing nearest Jon, holding a young boy on her shoulders. She looks up and says, “I’m Ygritte.”

Sansa can’t keep her hands off her face, and Davos’s similarly lets loose a noise of shock. 

There’s a flash on the other woman’s face and Sansa suddenly wonders if she knows, what she knows. 

“How far away are we from Winterfell?” Jon asks. 

“Not too far. I can probably take one more person on my horse.”

“Take Gilly,” Henneh insists, “She’s still sick.”

“We haven’t had any issues with bandits-”

“I don’t think they will be a problem,” another voice says. Sansa squints and spies a small figure with an oddly shaped face. 

“Sansa, this is Rowan. She’s the last of the children of the forest.”

Sansa smiles. Perhaps she should be more shocked. 

“It’s getting a bit late,” she tells them all, helping Gilly onto her horse in front of her, “Maybe we should continue this conversation on the road.”

The road, even with the snow, is far less intimidating with such a group. Jon walks beside Sansa and Gilly. He reaches up and touches her quiver. 

“You have a bow now?”

Sansa grins. 

“Lots of things have changed since we’ve seen you. I have a bow, Arya has a husband, Robb has a betrothed, she’s a wildling too.”

As they get closer, she reaches down and touches Jon on the shoulder. 

“I think you should try and talk to Mother if you can. Father told her the truth...and I think it really shook her up.”

Jon’s eyes go dark, and so Sansa gives him a pat. 

“Like I said, lots of things have changed. It’s okay if you have changed too.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Winterfell**

Winterfell is flush with new arrivals by the time Robb and Ned return with Val in tow. 

Ygritte and the other women had walked through Winterfell’s gate with looks of awe on their faces. 

“Your crow stories do not do it justice. And Castle Black wasn’t anything like this,” she tells him.

She barely gets time to marvel before Jon is nearly bowled over by several figures rushing to greet him. 

Jon would have expected Arya to be first, and she is. He expects less that she is nearly able to look him in the eye.

“Jon! We were all so scared, we didn’t know what happened. Father and Robb aren’t here yet, but they should be home soon.”

Jon pulls her back to look at her. She's still small, still slender, but clearly grown.

“Little sister,” he tells her nearly in awe, “You’re a woman grown now.”

“Always so surprised,” she replies.

She’s smiling as wide as Jon could ever remember, and pulls back slightly to gesture at the burly, dark haired man by her side. 

“This is my husband Gendry,”

Seven hells, Jon thought, he did exist. And when Gendry reaches to shake his hand, he seems that same glimmer of recognition he’s seen from others over the years. 

The introduction is interrupted by the arrival of two more figures. One is a young man who is tall and willowy even with the cane clutched in his left hand, and it’s with a rush that Jon realizes the figure is Bran. By his side, and rushing out in front to hug Jon with a mop of red curls is the first person Jon has seen who doesn’t look a thousand years old behind the eyes. 

“Jon!” Rickon, of course it would be Rickon, yells as he tackles Jon to the ground. Jon ‘oofs’, his youngest brother is much stronger than he used to be. 

“The raven said you were dead!”

Bran’s face turns grim at his brother’s words. 

“Alliser Thorne wrote us a letter saying he’d declared you dead,” he tells Jon, “That’s why I sent Septima over the wall to find you.”

Jon smiles, remembering the note scrawled at the end of Bran’s letter, ‘her name is Septima, she likes berries.’

But still...to learn you’ve been declared dead is a bit daunting. 

There’s another group of people, and Jon feels Sansa come up into the middle of them and begins making introductions. Jon is surprised that most of them seem to recognize Gilly and Sam. He is somehow still surprised by the flicker of understanding, but not familiarity, when he introduces Ygritte. He is disheartened, when he notices her looking at her feet. 

She has brightened a bit once everyone has been gathered in the Great Hall, over a thick stew. 

When Sansa mentions Robb’s betrothal, her eyes go wide.

“Did you know Val?” Jon asks her, under his breath. 

Ygritte furrows her brow. 

“Not really, I knew of her, but she wasn’t from my village. She might recognize me but we weren’t close.”

Ygritte’s face goes penseive. 

“You know your brother better than me, will he try and make a southerner out of her?”

That’s a thought. Jon thinks on it for a long time. 

“I think my brother’s a good man, but it’s been years since I’ve been around him. Do you think I should talk to him?”

Ygritte nods softly. 

“It’s not my concern, but I would hate to see one of us kept in the kind of bondage we always fought so hard against just in hopes that we will be safe.”

Jon sighs, and files that away among all of the other things he has to remember to do.

There’s a lull in the talk, and Jon looks around the Great Hall, and notes that Lady Catelyn is nowhere to be seen. 

Bran watches him looking and says quietly, 

“Mother’s out in the Godswood most likely. It’s her spot now the way it used to be Father’s.”

Well, it’s now or never, Jon supposes. He turns and touches Ygritte on the shoulder. 

“I’ll be back in a bit, are you OK here?”

She nods, engrossed in a discussion with Meera and Arya who are having a spirited debate about the merits of different weapons. 

As Jon leaves the Great Hall, the wind begins to nip at him. It somehow feels colder than it did in the far far north, but maybe it’s just his anticipation. 

The trees in the Godswood are bare, most of them anyway. The few that still have leaves or needles clinging to their branches stand apart, forever green. Or red, in the case of the weirwood. 

Catelyn is sitting beneath it, and if she hears Jon coming, she doesn’t move or make a sound. 

When he gets close enough, he thinks he hears her say, 

“I don’t think I can look at you.”

It cuts, but Jon gets it. He sits in the snow beneath the same tree, with his back to the trunk, so he’s looking in the opposite direction she is. 

He hears her take a deep breath. 

“You must hate me. You should hate me.”

Jon ponders his response before he opens his mouth. 

“I could. It would be easy to do. But I don’t think I will. The last several years have been...different. Confusing, eye opening, life changing. I don’t want to dwell on the past. If you’re willing to put your treatment of me behind you, I’ll try to do the same. I’ve been informed by people who knew....me before, and I’ve been informed that I brood a lot. I’d like not to.”

He thinks he hears a chuckle come from her, but even it sounds regretful. 

“I’ve been shocked to my core these past years... I’ve been shocked so much I can only reconcile it as an act of the Gods to force me to examine my own behavior. I’ve been forced to acknowledge that I was awful to you your entire life for something that wasn’t any fault of your own. I was forced to acknowledge that it never even occurred to me to hold my own husband accountable for what I had thought were his own weaknesses. All I can say is that I'm sorry, as little as that probably means.”

Ned, Jon realizes. He understands. It was hard to think of the man he had spent his entire life thinking of as his father in a dishonest light. That he had lied, for reasons Jon didn’t understand. And, Jon realizes with a twinge, that he had allowed his own wife to treat Jon the way she had. But, like he’d told her, the past is not something they can change, only the future. 

“That woman you brought with you, the one with the red hair,” Catelyn suddenly asks. Jon recognizes changing the subject when he hears it, but if she wants to try and bury the hatchet, he’ll let her. “Did you break your vow for her?”

There’s not even a hint of judgement in her voice, and Jon’s answer nearly catches in his throat. 

“If you go by the word, no. I neither married her nor has she bore my children. But I think we both know that’s not what those rules are supposed to mean. I guess it’s a good thing that according to them I’m dead now.”

They sit in silence in the cold winter air for a time after that. Even after her words, Jon still can’t make himself look at her. After what must be a quarter of an hour, he hears her stand. 

“Your room is just as you left it, and space is as at a minimum.”

And then she leaves Jon alone. 

At least her words mean he doesn’t have to pretend when he returns, grabs Ygritte’s hand and leads her off. 

Winterfell feels different than it did in his childhood. It looks the same, every single corner, identical to how it was in his memory, but it feels different. Maybe it’s the people. Every corner there’s someone he doesn’t recognize, and not all of them look like highborn northerners. Gilly and the others are led to one of the guest chambers by a woman who wears furs like the Free Folk, and Jon wonders if she’s one of the ones who had fled.

Jon’s stoking the fire when Ygritte sits down on the end of his featherbed, marveling at the feel of it, she says,

“You lied Jon. I saw absolutely no women at supper doing any swooning whatsoever.”

Jon chuckles, and pulls back the furs to climb underneath. He wraps an arm around Ygritte when she joins him, and asks. 

“What do you think of Winterfell so far?”

Ygritte’s voice is quiet, and thoughtful. 

“Strange. Everyone’s been nice enough, but I guess I just don’t know what I was expecting.”

She wriggles back against him. 

“At least you’re here though. That makes a lot of things better.”

Lots of letters come the next morning. The sky is thick with ravens despite the falling snow. 

Catelyn covers her mouth reading an official looking one. 

“Stannis is sending Benjen back home.”

The atmosphere goes cold, and Bran speaks first. 

“He wants to warn us, doesn’t realize we already know.”

“Is there anything we can do to stop him?” Jon demands. 

Bran shakes his head. 

“Even if I could get one of my ravens through the snow. Even if it got to the Shadow Tower before Benjen leaves, I don’t think any of us could find words to make Stannis realize what’s going to happen.”

Bran slumps against the table, lost in the memory of the Night King having zeroed in on his location, how he pursed him south, completely single-minded.

Sansa coughs softly over the letter she’s reading. She slams the latter down the table upside down and rubs her temple. 

“It seems Danaerys Targaryen has some kind of gift for timing.”

“Has she landed in Dragonstone?” Arya asks. 

“Yes, but she’s not marching on King’s Landing yet. It won’t matter, just the landing will have gotten the attention of the other six kingdoms.”

“At least that should distract Joffrey and Tywin a bit,” Catelyn suggests. 

Sansa nods. 

“We should send someone south, someone who-”

She cuts herself off, and stares across the table. 

“Theon,” she starts, “There are Ironborn ships among her crew. I think your sister may be involved. Can you go south and act as an emissary?”

Theon’s face freezes, and he nods slowly. Truthfully, he’s been sort of going along with things as they’re happening. Even after all these years, he still lives his life with a shred of disbelief. 

“We won’t do anything until Father returns,” she assures him though. “We’ll need his official word as Lord.”

“Well,” Arya cuts in, reading the letter she’d taken, “That won’t be long. Father and Robb are preparing to leave the Dreadfort. They shouldn’t be more than two weeks.”

Two weeks is still a long time, Jon muses. 

Meera speaks up after a spell of silence, from the letter she's reading. 

“My father says we can take some of the refugees, maybe fifty or a hundred. We can’t handle many more though, resources are stretched thin because of the winter and much of the Neck is unsafe to travel because of the ice.”

Sansa nods.

“That will be our last resort then. Bear Island says they can take two or three hundred. We can probably send ships from White Harbor to the Vale or further south too...but that will bring its own set of troubles. I don't want to send northerners away from the danger of the Others only to send them into a completely different sort of danger.”

Frustrated, everyone leaves the table to their own tasks for the day. 

Catelyn retires to her solar and begins to gather the papers to begin making wedding arrangements. She ought to have enjoyed this once, she thinks.

Most of the others start making their way towards the training yard. When Ygritte had pulled out her wood and bone bow, Meera had given it a look and gone, 

“Finally some proper competition.”

Jon was still surprised to see Sansa with her bow, surprised even more that she was quite good. Bran, despite his physical limitations and need for frequent rest, was far better than when Jon had seen him last at age ten. And Arya….

Arya with a weapon in her hand was a thing of beauty. She could switch from a bow to a spear to a sword with incredible ease. Despite Meera’s complaints about her lack of competition, Arya could match her shot for shot and had a fighter’s instict that Meera said she could never have. After a bit, Ygritte lets her handle Wild Thing a bit, and Jon suddenly remembers. 

“I’ll be back,” he tells Sansa, before slipping up to his old bedchamber and returning with the long wrapped package. 

Arya eyes him quizzically, when he unwraps it. Her eyes go wide when removes Longclaw and then hands her Dark Sister. 

“I can’t…” she tries, her hands toying with the weight. The others have gathered around to look. She runs a finger over the steel with awe. 

“This is Valyrian steel.”

“I had no idea,” Meera interjects, her face ashen, “I found it in the cave before, but I left it. It’s too long and too heavy for me, even if I was good with a sword. If I’d known…”

“We have it now,” Arya insists. She then turns her gaze over to the other side of the training yard where Brienne is sparring with a huge bearded man and somehow still staying on top. 

“And I think it’s time I put a greatsword to practice.”

After a few rounds more rounds with her bow, Ygritte retrieves her axe to spar with some of the other Free Folk who were following Ser Rodrik’s lead. She kept looking at them with a strange look in her eye. 

Between rounds, they would all gather around and try and figure out strategy. 

“If we’re lucky the wildfire will take out a lot of the wights before they can breach the wall,” Bran says.

“If we’re unlucky they might carry the burn over to this side, “ Sansa comments wryly. 

“We’ve got more than enough dragon glass weapons for all the keeps north of us,” Meera adds, “And Gendry’s working on adding armor to the shipments while he can.”

“It’s a shame there are so few blades of Valyrian steel left,” Jon comments, looking at Longclaw. “And that knowledge on how to make them has been lost. 

“Not lost completely maybe, the maesters can still earn links made of it,” Arya interjects, “But being that it involves dragon fire, it doesn't matter really. Gendry's old master in King's Landing can reforge it, he split Ice into two smaller swords before. But most people aren't exactly offering up their family swords for use.”

Dragon fire, Jon can still barely wrap his head around it. If Theon did his job well enough, they might have access to some, but not before the wall was breached. 

“We’ll have access to fire at least,” Ygritte comments, “What with those...fire things Rowan can make.”

Jon frowns suddenly. 

“Have you seen Rowan since we got here?”

Ygritte furrows her brow and shakes her head. Jon looks around the circle of faces to see no recognition, until he gets to Bran. 

“She slipped off into the Godswood during everyone’s introductions. Meera and I were going to to go talk to her after dinner. 

The conversation is interrupted by Jojen, who nudges Jon and points to Ygritte. 

“Can we borrow you two for a bit?”

The two of them glance at each other before following. Jojen leads them to a table in the bottom of the library, where Shireen Baratheon sits next to a stack of papers bound with string. Jojen sits in a chair off to one side, a book open on his lap about the First Men.

Shireen looks at them both with her scarred face. Jon sees Ygritte stiffen, but she doesn’t say anything. 

“Sit down.”

She picks up a piece of paper and her quill. 

“I’ve been trying to shake the stories out of everyone, and write it all down. Once the dead walk...well, some of this could be really important to write down.”

“Is that why you dragged Gilly and little Sam off at breakfast?” Ygritte asks. 

Shireen nods, and brightens. 

“That was great too. I told Gilly what I was doing, turns out she can’t read or write at all! Asked me to teach her, she seemed to think it was some sort of magic. I kind of agree”

“A man who reads lives many lives, a man who never reads lives only one,” Jojen intones in his even, serious voice. 

“Yes, exactly. Well, some of you have already lived more than one life, so that makes this even more important to get down.”

She starts asking them questions, and they answer each of them. Jon sees Ygritte’s gaze stay on Shireen’s scarred face, and he fears she’s going to say something. 

“You can ask, Gilly did.” Shireen tells her at one point. She apparently was reading Jon’s mind. 

“How did it stop?”

Shireen makes a face and sighs. 

“We don’t know really. But it hasn’t progressed since I was a babe.”

“I never thought it could be stopped. Up north, wisdom has always been that it will always kill, that even the sight of someone scarred with it was unlucky.”

Shireen stares at her. Ygritte shakes her head. 

“Anyone tries to tell you that shit, let me hit them. Our general wisdom has always been that people kissed by fire like me were lucky too. Some luck, all it got me was shot through the chest by some brat, I’m beginning to wonder if the Free Folk actually know shit at all.”

Jon sees Shireen’s face soften, and is grateful when the subject turns. 

By the time Jojen tells them that they should leave for dinner, Shireen already has multiple pages down, stuffed into her bundle. 

When they reach the Great Hall, Jon looks around at the strangely less full table. 

“Where’s Bran?”

“Him and Meera already left for the Godswood to try and find Rowan,” Sansa tells him. 

Which is where they were now. 

Upon seeing Rowan, the last of the children of the forest, sitting before the weirwood, Bran had fallen to his knees, in a manner that had nothing to do with his bad leg. 

Rowan had tears escape her eyes. Bran hadn’t even known her kind could cry. She had come forward, and embraced him like a child. 

Some time later, when they’ve settled in the snow and listened to Rowan’s story, Meera quietly asks. 

“Did you know? Did you know that Bran following Bloodraven’s training would leave him...the way it did?”

Rowan sighs. 

“Not for sure, but I should have.”

Meera nods, 

“I knew something felt off from the moment we got to that cave. I should have said something earlier.”

Bran shakes his head and grabs her hand. 

“I wouldn’t have listened even if you had said something, I was so stubborn…”

Rowan buries her face in her hands. 

“My people spent so long protecting the raven and his powers, I’m no longer even sure if he had benevolent goals at all.”

Bran bites his lip. This is something that’s been rolling around in his mind all day, after having realized that the Raven had no role in their second chance, and that it was Rowan’s doing truly. 

“He may have had powers, but Brynden Rivers was a man,” he intones with a serious tone, “He told me I would fly. He wanted that too. He taught me a great deal, but I think in the end all he really wanted was to escape that cave and be free. And he couldn’t hitch a ride with me still in control of my own mind.”

Meera reaches out and touches the face on the heart tree. 

“It’s so hard to believe that these trees can really talk to each other. Between that, your ravens and Nymeria’s wolf pack, we’ll have eyes all over the north.”

Rowan smiles ruefully, 

“The words, of the old, True tongue is the only magic, the only gift I have left to give to humanity.”

Bran’s face goes blank for a moment, and Meera wrinkles her brow in curiosity. 

“What is it?”

Bran stands, using her hand for balance before retrieving his cane. He raises his eyes to Rowan. 

“Can you do me a favor?”

“I think that’s the least that I owe you.”

The three of them make their way out of the Godswood, and down to the stable. Most of the stablehands have taken their dinner in the Great Hall, hiding from the snow and the wind. 

But Willas never did. Every day he ate his soup and bread with the horses. 

Even seated on the bench, he is so large that Rowan must climb up to look him in the eye. 

“From what you’ve said, his mind has become that of a greenseer who’s seen too much, or for too long. I don’t know if I can give him back his words, but I’ll see if I can ease his mind.”

Bran and Meera hang back and listen as Rowan begins to speak, in the woods that sound like the rushing of a stream. 

“I’m never doing that again,” Bran comments under his breath, “I knew how badly it scared him and I still did it again. I thought it was the only way to save our lives, but even if it was life or death, I don’t think I could ever make myself warg a person again.”

Meera squeezes his hand tightly.

“I told him to hold the door,” she admits quietly, “You warged him, but I’m the one who told him...you’re not the only one who should shoulder some of the blame.”

They’re talking quietly, but aren’t paying the most attention. They don’t hear Rowan quit speaking, and they don’t hear Willas stand up and put his plate down. 

They don’t notice until he gets close and picks up Bran in a big bear hug. Bran’s grown fairly tall, but he still gets lifted straight off his feet. 

“Hodor,” he says, dead serious. His loosens his grip just enough so that he can use one hand to touch Meera on the head, to brush down her curls. 

“Hodor,” he says again, quietly, with a content smile.


	26. Chapter 26

The first comment Sansa makes upon seeing Val for the first time with Robb and Ned is, 

“Wow, she’s pretty. Like, southern pretty even.”

“Bit too blonde for me,” Gendry comments, “Makes me think of the Lannisters.”

And blonde she is, and tall with regal features, even in her northern furs. 

“Don’t be fooled,” Ygritte comments from her end on the line, “She had a man last I heard, story was she stole him, not the other way around.”

While the others are entering and helping unpack, Arya eyes Val. Her face looks three parts stony resolve, one part confused. She interrupts her assessment only to throw her arms around Ned and Robb.

“Oi, it’s been too long. Is that whole place still an unholy mess?”

Ned smiles fondly, 

“Most of the most troublesome have either fallen to fights or finally calmed down. Most don’t much like the thought of being northerners, but they like the idea of being killed by Others even less. It’s an alliance of necessity.”

Sansa’s response is quiet, 

“At least now they should be considered northerners by the rest of the seven kingdoms.”

Ned’s voice is sedate. 

“After the wedding, I’m calling the banners. Whatever Tywin may try to throw at us afterwards will come upon chaos.”

Sansa nods. 

Catelyn is standing beside Jon and Ygritte, and she steels her face and reaches to grasp Val’s hands warmly, or what she hopes passes for warmly. 

Val’s gaze is distracted when she sees Ygritte.

“Mance and Jarl both?” Ygritte asks, her voice thin. 

Val nods. She still hasn’t spoken. 

“Dalla and the babe too?”

Val nods again, and then speaks. 

“All dead at the Wall. I ran.”

Ygritte’s lips pinch,

“Damn it all, I’m sorry.”

“How did you even-”

Catelyn cuts them both off, 

“From what I’ve heard, it’s a very long story and you must be tired from the journey, let’s get you settled in.”

As Catelyn shows her the way, Jon sees Arya sprout up beside them and ask, 

“What do you fight with?”

“Arya!” Catelyn admonishes, 

“What? It’s an important question.”

“Anything I can get in my hands,” Val responds, quietly. 

“See? We can work with that.”

When Catelyn leads her away, Val catches sight of Shireen and goes still. She’s standing with Jojen, Meera and Brienne a little apart from the rest of the Starks. Catelyn turns Val’s shoulders away, but Shireen feels the urge to pull her cloak over her face until she feels Jojen reach down and squeeze her hand. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he reminds her.

The next moons are full of far too much sewing for Arya’s taste. Catelyn takes it upon herself to sew Val her maiden’s cloak and a proper gown for the occasion. Despite Val’s ferocity, she seems utterly at a loss at the power of Catelyn’s femininity. 

And so Arya figures she might as well muck in. And she feels she’s done admirably, at least until one day she has to flee to the forge for a bit.

Arya shakes her head at Gendry while he works at a sheet of mail. 

“We’ve been running hems,” she tells him. That’s just one thing. Sansa’s gotten it in her head to add lace to both her and Meera’s gowns she made them years ago, and they can’t seem to figure out how to dissuade her.

“Meera and I. She can mend things well enough, but never learned to do anything fancy, so we both just sort of stand back…”

She’s trailing off and Gendry fishes,

“Did something happen?”

Arya smiles grimly. 

“I was doing a sleeve hem- slowly- when Shireen asked why I hold the needle in my right hand when I hold my sword in my left.”

Gendry quirks an eyebrow at her. 

“Why do you? I’ve seen you write with your left hand too.”

Arya crosses her arms. 

“That’s how I was taught. Septa Mordane was always very strict on doing things just as she did, and Mother always said I must listen to the Septa.”

There’s a bit of silence. 

“Was it better when you switched?”

Arya sits on one of the benches. 

“They were crooked as ever, but they sure took a lot less effort.”

The times she’d stitched wounds back together, Arya thought, she’d used her left hand too. It bristles at her, the thought that something that drove her so mad as a child might just have been caused by something so small. So many years, in shame. It wasn’t like she magically enjoyed doing needlework, but still. 

Gendry senses her discomfort, and puts the mail down to sit next to her on the bench. He puts an arm around her shoulders and rests his cheek against her hair. 

“We haven’t really talked about it have we?”

Arya looks at him funny.

“About what?”

“About what we’re going to do once all of this is over.”

Arya is quiet, far too quiet. Far quieter than she ever was. 

“I haven’t really thought about it,” she admits, “I can’t seem to think of anything after…”

Gendry takes her hands onto his lap and idly rubs the backs of them with the thumb of his left hand. He kisses her head once, and squeezes his right arm around her more tightly. 

“What do you want to do? If you could do anything at all with your life?”

Arya exhales through her nose, thinking deeply. 

“All I used to want was to be back at Winterfell, with all of my family. I got that, I have it. It’s more than I could have ever dreamed of. But now Robb’s getting married and the war’s coming, and it’s like...I know it can’t be like this forever. Eventually, most of us will leave and go our separate ways.” 

Her voice keeps trailing off, as though it’s getting lost.

“And it’s like my feet are itchy. I want to see- something, anything out there. Maybe it’s because I know that now if I leave it will still be here when I come back.”

Gendry brushes a bit of her hair behind her ear, and moves his lip to that one spot behind it that always makes her shiver. 

“I guess we can talk about this all again once we do survive this war,” he whispers to her. 

Arya nuzzles herself against him. 

“What about you? Are you really content being a smith all your life.”

“It’s good work,” Gendry tells her, “I admit, I’d rather be known for making armor than weapons.”

“After this war you’ll be known for both.’

Armor, is what Sansa thinks of when the day of the wedding comes and her and Arya are helping Val into her gown and cloak. The gown is plain while wool embroidered with silver and gold.

Arya ties her stays, and then laces her gown over it. She hands her the plain white wool cloak as Sansa helps brush her hair. 

Val looks at it, 

“I thought it was the fur one.”

Arya shakes her head. 

“That’s the bride’s cloak. This is the maiden’s. It’s supposed to be what you’re giving up.”

Sansa tries to work the brush through her hair gently. She’d tried brushing Ygritte’s earlier, only for Arya to shoo her off saying, “You’ll scare her all the way to Dorne if you try and brush her hair like you used to brush mine!”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa tells her quietly, “This is all horseshit.”

Arya quirks an eyebrow, and Val’s response is harsh. 

“If you was so opposed to your brother marrying a wildling, you should have said something. Though I suppose you southerners would have to defer to your lords.”

Sansa yanks on the bit of hair she’s holding. 

“Given our understanding of the Free Folk might make it seem like you might up and slit our brother’s throat one day, you should understand being a bit cautious. Besides, I don’t think that’s what she meant,” Arya tells her, with a wiley, hunter’s gaze trained on her. 

“That is indeed, not what I meant,” Sansa replies wryly. “I was saying it was horseshit that when you chose to get married that it had to be something about forging a bond between two groups in hopes of surviving a war. Once the war’s done, you’ll still be stuck with Robb.”

Val mutters something about how he had never even proven himself by stealing her properly. 

“If you want to follow that tradition so bad, steal him,” Arya tells her sardonically, “We’ve heard you’ve done it before, and there will be so much wine flowing at the feast it shouldn’t take too much effort, and most southerners don’t carry their swords to weddings.”

Even without Theon here to get Robb even further into his cups, Sansa muses. It really is a shame that one of his closest friends will have to miss his wedding, though Theon would have likely spent the whole day making awful jokes. 

Sansa smiles, with just a hint of teeth. 

“Remember though, that he is our brother. Mother says that once you’re married, you’ll be family too, but if you try to harm him in any way, that won’t stop us from slitting your throat either.”

Arya quirks an eyebrow

“Sansa may look like a perfect southern lady, but she’s grown as handy with a bow as she is with a sewing needle.”

“And Arya has always preferred swords and other things with pointy ends to proper ladies pastimes. We used to call her a little wildling.”

Val’s deflates a bit. 

“I would have done about anything to get most of us out of that place,” she mutters, and Sansa feels a flash of sympathy. She understands being held against your will, “If you say he’s a good man…”

“He is,” Arya assures her proudly, “And Jon’s probably giving him a go-over right now. If anyone understands Free Folk women here, it’s him.”

They were right in fact. Robb was currently getting a shake down from Jon and Ygritte. There’s the usual, that Val won’t know her southern courtesies, that she might occasionally threaten people. That she has, in fact, been with men before him and won’t blush.

“And she might try and drag you off at some point tonight. Not that you should just let her do it, but try not to panic, she’s not going to kill you. Probably,” is how Ygritte puts it.

Jon shakes his head, 

“I still don’t understand the whole bit about stealing your spouse.”

“Well you should,” Ygritte insists, with a conspiratorial grin, “You stole me. Twice.”

Jon wrinkles his nose,

“I did not!”

The argument devolves after that and Robb puts his head in his hands. 

“Is this what my future looks like?”

Jon and Ygritte both nod. 

“Best get used to it now.”

When Jon moves to lace up his doublet in the mirror (Made by Catelyn, embroidered by Sansa), Ygritte pats Robb on the shoulder. 

“You don’t have to do what we talked about,” she tells him quietly, “But I think you really should try.”

Twilight has fallen, and it’s time for the ceremony. Ned comes to Robb, and Davos to Val. She looks at him warily before taking his arm. 

“Tradition dictates that this should be your father,” he tells her, “But far too many have lost their fathers too young, and I seem to be standing in more and more.”

The weather that day is snowy, and the Godswood is under a thick covering of powder, but thankfully, it is not windy. This is a regular snow, not a blizzard. Everyone has their cloak hoods up, hiding their faces, as the wedding party meets under the Heart tree. Even the Free Folk who are in attendance, members of the household as well as a few granted leave from the Dreadfort, seem to recognize the winter weather.

The crowd isn’t enormous. Not all of the northern lords have been able to make the journey. Sansa fears that may bode poorly, for when Ned calls the banners. Despite the frequent ravens, the visits by both Ned and Davos, and the stories that the Free Folk have told, Sansa still fears that many in the north do not truly believe the threat.

Ygritte’s in an emerald silk gown that Sansa had altered for her from one of her old ones, she’d been inspired, she told her, when she saw they shared the same hair. She’s shivering, and muttering about how ladies in fancy gowns were supposed to keep the freezing air from up their skirts.

Arya’s gown turned out wonderfully, Sansa thought. The layer of silver lace made the dark blue wool look almost like the night sky. Arya’s holding Gendry’s arm, and Sansa hears her ask quietly, 

“You sure you aren’t going to up and want me to dress like this every day right?”

“If you wore gowns every day, it wouldn’t be special. Besides, you and I both know I prefer you in nothing at all.”

Sansa chuckles.

Everyone says their words right, and Robb and Val really do make a picture, Sansa thinks to herself. The other Free Folk in the group are all behaving, even if their faces range from bemused to outright mocking of the proceedings. 

When everyone’s applauding, Sansa whispers to Arya, who’s on her left (Ygritte and Jon on her right), 

“Marriage shouldn’t be the glue that holds these kingdoms together.”

Arya snickers. 

“Only thing my marriage holds together is me.”

Arya doesn’t think of it, Sansa ruminated. Her marriage was only even allowed because of unusual circumstances, the best her and Gendry could have hoped for under normal ones would have been to run away together. 

Sansa looks down the line at the rest of her family. 

Jon is technically still breaking his oath to the Night’s Watch, not that anyone here really cared, and what with him being dead to them and all. Bran and Meera would actually be considered an excellent match, if it weren’t for the fact that they likely would have never met if it weren’t for the way their lives had been...disturbed. 

Gendry interrupts her thoughts, 

“Time for the feast though. There are worse things to try and find common ground over than food and drink.”

He has a point, though Sansa realizes his eyes are trained on one of the Free Folk men assembled behind Val’s side of the Godswood. With a start, Sansa realizes it’s Tormund. She feels a rush of fondness, and wishes to greet him, but knows it wouldn’t go well. She hopes he at least didn’t bring that fermented goat’s milk he drinks. That might cause brawls.

But, now is a time for merriment regardless. Maybe the last for a while. 

The feast is quite subdued to be honest, but as grand as can be summoned. There is a huge stew of venison, mushrooms and roots, and meat pies, and enough wine is flowing that most of the guests might not notice that the middle of the pie is almost the same as the stew. Dried plums and apples have been soaked in water and honey and transformed into puddings. 

And the wine and ale flow freely. 

Much food is eaten, and much ale is drunk, and out comes the lutes and the pipes, and many begin to dance. 

Sansa notes at one point, when the whole family is seated at the dais, that Robb appears to be only nursing his wine, and she thinks she realizes what’s going to happen.

The dais has been set up close to the entrance to the Great Hall, there’s nothing in the way of the exit at all. 

It’s after all of them are quite full, when Sansa spots Val’s hand land on Robb’s arm. She looks confused for a moment.

“Are you-”

And with one swift movement, Robb hoists her up around the waist and throws her over one shoulder, heading towards the door. It’s close enough that she barely even yells, in surprise or objection, though she swears she hears Robb say, “I’ve got four younger siblings, you’re going to have to try harder than that.”

Sansa raises an eyebrow. 

Jon points at Ygritte. 

“Her and Arya suggested it might mean something to Val that he at least try to steal her as a wildling might. I told Robb to make sure and wear his chainmail under his clothes, or she’d bruise him through all seven hells and back, at the very least, if she didn’t break a rib or two of his.”

There’s a smarting of applause and shouts from the Free Folk in the room, and Sansa hears Tormund holler “Watch out for her feet, lad, they’re the sharpest part of her!” and it helps put the image of chainmail at a wedding out of her mind. She sips her wine. 

“Do we think she’ll escape at all?” Gendry asks. 

“Not with how tight I laced her stays up earlier,” Arya interjects with a smirk. “Too bad I couldn’t find one of those freakish southern ones with the whale bones. What savages she would have thought us then?”

Sansa notes too that many of the northern lords who had made the journey for the wedding look terribly uncomfortable. Catelyn looks uncomfortable, too, but tries to hide it by sipping her wine. 

“Do we think this had more or less dignity than a traditional bedding?” Ned inquires. 

“At least it was done quicker,” is Bran’s take. 

“And no one but Robb touched her at all,” Sansa adds. She turns to Ned, “I always heard you forbad the bedding at your and Mother’s wedding, was that true?”

Ned nods, eyes training gently towards Catelyn. 

“I had thought that the day would be traumatic enough without adding that on top.”

He stands, and reaches for her hand, wordlessly asking for a dance. Catelyn’s hand shakes a bit as she accepts.

Sansa’s glad. She remembers pulling Shireen away from the bedding at Joffrey’s wedding. She remembers the terror of the possibility at both of her weddings. She remembers Arya brushing away any attempts to even suggest one. 

Bran’s moved over to one of the other tables to sit with Meera, Davos and Brienne, and Arya and Gendry have gotten up to dance as well, so Sansa’s alone at the table. She finishes her wine. Another wedding down. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Shireen ask Jojen if he wants to dance. 

Well, that might be interesting. 

“The last wedding I went to was in the south. This part is pretty much the same, but the ceremony was completely different.”

Shireen’s not the best dancer, so they’re just keeping off to one side and going at half-speed. Well, her feet, not her mouth. 

“I don’t remember the last wedding we attended back home,” Jojen admits, “I know most of our traditions are northern, but there must be some differences too. Weddings never really interested me much, I was never sure if I would end up getting married myself at all. Somehow, I didn’t think so.”

Bran had mentioned to him once, that when they had gone north before, that Jojen had seemed resigned. That he had apparently seen his own death and had come to accept it. Jojen feels like he’s spent most of his life in that state, even if it was never specific. 

“Me either,” Shireen admits, “So much of how they educate girls is about marriage and wifely duties. But everyone always seemed to think finding someone to marry me would be hard, so I tried not to waste too much time thinking about it.”

She also imagined that if her father had ever managed to arrange a match for her, then it probably wouldn’t be an ideal one. Who could be convinced to marry a girl with a face like hers, even if she was his sole heir?

“Maybe once your father returns from the Wall, he’ll betroth you to one of the Stark boys.”

Shireen makes a noise that’s halfway between a giggle and a snort that thankfully hides the tightness she suddenly feels in her chest. 

“Since we’ve gotten here, I’ve seen Rickon go off, or try to go off with four or five of the wildling girls here. One or two of the boys too. I doubt my father would approve. And after I bumped into Bran kissing your sister the second day I was here, I sort of figured he’d been spoken for.”

Jojen’s eyes suddenly go wide.

“Oh...did you not know about them?” Shireen asks, suddenly feeling awkward in a different way. “They were a little embarrassed but didn’t seem ashamed or like they were trying to hide.”

Jojen sighs deeply, his eyes downcast. 

“They never really talk about what happened between them after I died,” he admits, “I just know Meera was really anxious about seeing him again. I guess I should have realized.”

He looks so lost, Shireen thinks. He said he never thought about marriage, but didn’t he ever want something like for himself at all? The tightness in her chest has returned,

“I mean,” she says, “They do go off by themselves a lot.”

Jojen frowns, a blank look on his face. They’re not dancing anymore, just sort of standing off to the side though their hands are still touching. Most of the rest of the floor is heavily into their cups already and aren’t paying them any mind. 

“Well,” he says, “We do that too.”

Shireen’s heart is now thudding, she can feel her blood rushing to her ears. 

“We do,” she agrees. 

Her eyes fix suddenly on his lips. They’re nearly the same height, and she doesn’t even have to tilt her head. She could kiss him right now. 

Should she?

She feels her hands sweat where they touch. She blames the wine, even though she didn’t even have half a cup. Maybe she’ll blame this on it too. 

With a burst of courage she’s not sure where she got from, she leans forward and presses her lips to his. It’s brief, and soft, and when she pulls back she’s frightened to see his reaction. 

“Was that okay?” she asks, searching his face.

There’s a long pause before he says, 

“I think so.”

Another pause,

“Maybe you should try it again to make sure.”

A grin explodes on her face. Well, he suggested it, so she does.

And like Shireen thought, the only people in the room who even catch a glimpse are Davos and Brienne. 

The old man feels a smile creep onto his face. 

“Shireen spoke of you quite a bit at Storm’s End,” Brienne tells him, “the two of you were close?”

Davos nods. 

“I have seven sons of my own. Shireen is the closest I’ve ever had to a daughter.”

And now he’s gotten to see her life continue well beyond where it had before.

Brienne glances at the end of the table. 

“We’re alone now it seems. When did the others leave?”

“A few minutes ago when you were fending off the ginger fellow, Bran asked the girl to help him to his room.”

Brienne looks confused. 

“He doesn’t usually need assistance for that does he?”

Davos shakes his head. 

But, Bran thought as they made their way down the hallway, an excuse is an excuse. 

Meera stokes the fire when he sits on the edge of his bed. 

“One more wedding down,” he says, echoing Sansa’s sentiment. 

“It’s too bad this one is just a sign of an impending war.”

Meera turns and sits next to him. She’s perfectly comfortable here. She’d snuck into bed with him a few nights in a row when Jojen had been ill and his cough had been keeping her from sleep. It had felt normal, like when they had huddled for warmth over the wall. 

There’s something different tonight though. Maybe it’s the occasion, maybe it’s the firelight. 

Bran leans forward to kiss her slowly. She turns to deepen the kiss, and a frisson of need rushes through the both of them and it’s like a dam breaks. 

Hands that had previously only cautiously wandered, seek each other out with what she can only describe as a hunger to discover the other’s skin. Meera’s hand hover at the ties at the front of Bran’s jerkin and she whispers, “please” against his throat before she begins to undo the knots. 

She has to turn to let Bran’s hands find the laces on her gown and begin to undo them. She realizes they’re shaking. 

With her laces undone, she turns to steady his hands with her own. They’re covered in calluses and scars from years of working the dragonglass, but they comfort all the same.

“It’s okay,” she tells him, running her fingers up and down his forearms, “It’s not like I’ve ever done this before either.”

Her words seem to calm him, he nods to her as she lets the top of her gown fall to her waist. 

In what seems a split second, both are stripped bare, eyes drinking each other in and lips seeking to kiss each freckle, each scar. Bran’s hand tentatively finds it’s way between her thighs, eyes seeking hers in wonder when he finds her warm and wanting.

Meera’s head hits the pillow, and she looks up at Bran hovering above her. She feels no fear, she realizes, only anticipation. With a kiss sweeter than many of the previous ones, she runs her hands down the flat expanse of his chest and further down. 

And just once more, she looks deeply into Bran’s eyes and whispers, 

“Please.”

Meera doesn’t quite expect pain when he enters her, though she does have a sliver of fear of it, but all she gets is a queer pressure that she might describe as uncomfortable until Bran groans and moves and it begins to blossom into pleasure. 

She whimpers softly and tucks her head against his shoulder until he freezes with a grunt that sounds pained. 

With a rush of fear, she pulls back and he slips out. 

“Did I hurt you?” she asks anxiously, eyes searching his face. 

“It’s fine, he says, “It’s just my hip. It’s not used to moving like that.”

More disappointed than she’d admit, Meera reaches into her mind for the few bits of advice Arya had inflicted upon her over the years. 

“Lay back down,” she says, nudging him on his back. She shifts a bit and slides her leg over. Gently, she raises and lowers herself back into his lap. 

It’s different like this, she thinks, but no less heady. Bran gazes up at her with adoration in his eyes as she rocks against him, sweet words slipping through her lips as his hands seem on a quest to touch every inch of her. When she tenses and a rush goes through her she’d only felt from her own fingers before, Bran pushes himself up to rest his arms around her hips and kiss her through it, before he stills, groans, and finds his own release. 

As she’s coming down he kisses her cheek and softly murmurs “I love you,” in her ear. She shudders.

After some unmeasurable time, during which Meera’s breath still won’t seem to return to her completely, Bran quietly says, 

“We can’t take that back.”

With the sweat cooling on her skin, Meera suddenly feels incredibly vulnerable, and feels her words catch in her throat on their way out. 

“Would you want to?” she asks timidly. 

Bran rolls onto his side to look at her. He reaches a hand up to brush a bit of her hair behind her ear. 

“Not even a little.”

Meera laughs, and kisses him again. He throws and arm around here, and she pauses when he shifts and winces. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, is your hip okay?”

Bran nods, 

“It does that sometimes, just completely locks up, and then is stiff as hell for a few days. I’ll go down to the hot springs tomorrow morning, and maybe I won’t have to spend the rest of the day walking funny.”

“I think that’s supposed to be my line.”

Bran uses the arm he has around her shoulder to pull her closer, though he looks abashed. 

“I should have asked, are you okay?”

She laughs, and pulls him closer, 

“I’m better than okay.”

They don’t say another word after. Just they tuck themselves into each other and drift off under the furs. 

When the sunlight peeks through the next morning, Bran wakes with a start to the sound of people moving about in the hallway. Meera already has her gown pulled over her head, though only half laced, and her feet in her boots. 

She crawls back on the bed, and touches his lips with a fingertip.

“Everyone’s probably still hungover from last night’s festivities. I’ll sneak out the window.”

There’s a thickness in the air between them when she lingers. She surges forward to embrace him tightly before leaving and Bran fights the urge to cling to her. 

Bran’s chamber is on the ground floor thankfully, but instead of the fresh powder Meera expects when she drops from the window, she lands instead on something soft. 

She lets out a surprised “oof,” and stumbles, but the small shock is eased when she realizes it’s just Summer, sleeping in his usual spot under the window. 

He raises his head to look at her, and Meera reaches out to pet his muzzle. 

“Don’t blow my cover okay boy?”

She turns and scampers off, light on her feet. 

She doesn’t even notice that the sky is a far darker gray than usual.


	27. Chapter 27

**Winterfell**

Benjen ends up back at Winterfell a week after the wedding.

His face is scarred deeply, his lips torn to bits by his brothers in black’s attempts to remove the perverse stitching job. It hurts him to talk.

The only words he gets out are “they’re coming.”

Ned shushes him. 

“We know.”

Shireen pushes him a stack of papers and a pen. 

“Don’t talk if it hurts.”

She sits with him for several hours, over steaming mugs of broth. She writes down near every word.

Benjen carries a letter from Stannis, calling for aid. The wall may soon be overwhelmed, he says. Wights attack day after day, night after night, piling themselves upon each other to try and break the stronghold down. 

He has used one of the caches of wildfire Sansa sent. He says it lit part of the forest on fire, and kept the dead at bay for most of the next day and night. 

But that was only one point in the whole wall. 

Ned called the banners, like he had said, immediately following the wedding. Representatives have appeared slowly, too slowly he thinks, but at least they’ve come. 

He addresses his bannermen over a map of the north. He sighs deeply 

“Each house will send aid, but most of our forces should remain in their keeps, for the time. If our intelligence is correct, and the wall falls, we will spread our forces in a straight line across the north. Right now, our immediate priority is to begin immediate evacuations. 

“There is room for the listed numbers of non-combatant women on Bear Island,” Robb explains. Robb has escaped from his wedding night with only a black eye, and the Stark’s bannermen look to him as much as Ned. 

Robb nods towards Maege Mormont for confirmation. The lady had arrived with her three eldest daughters; Dacey, Alysanne, Jorelle and had left the island in the hands of the younger two; Lyra and Lyanna. 

“More than capable of keeping the women of the north safe,” Maege assures, with a stature imposing enough to back up her words, and question whether she would have ever needed protection herself. The arrangement had been Sansa’s suggestion, thinking that many of the women who were not willing to learn to fight in the previous years might feel more comfortable under the protection of other women.

While the decision making is going on, Benjen’s followed Shireen’s lead and ended up in the library, with her, Jon, and Bran. 

He notes the sky, growing darker gray by the day, through the tiny window. He looks around, at the tall shelves and winding staircases. 

“I haven’t been here in years,” he admits, “Even before I took the black, I was never one for books.”

While Shireen takes down his words, Bran lays out what he’s been doing with the ravens. 

“I sent Una to Castle Black, Dosa to Eastwatch, and Tresn to the Shadow Tower. Quatri’s in the mountains to the west, Quinta to the east of the Kingsroad. Sexen I sent to King’s Landing, and Septima along with Theon to Dragonstone. When the wall falls to the dead, we’ll know. If either the Dragon queen or the Lannisters decide it would be a good idea to sneak up on us in the middle, we’ll know too.”

Benjen looks at Bran with a steady eye. True, he had known he would not find the same eager child as he had known the last time he’d visited home but…

“The story all of you have spun is unbelievable...As is the fact that you’ve spent years knowing this was coming and not having lost your minds.”

“I really do agree,” Shireen interrupts, pausing her writing. She has done her best to hold herself apart from what the others have told her of her demise. She tries to focus on the fact that she’s come past it, gone beyond it, but sometimes it still creeps back in. Sometimes in her dreams, she swears she can still smell the fire, hear the screams from her own throat.

Bran laughs to himself. 

“It’s all we can do.”

He tries not to think too much of what it would have been like if this had all happened and it turned out that nothing could be changed at all. That they would have all been forced to watch as those they loved died around them regardless of their foreknowledge. Bran shudders at the thought of feeling the raven’s visions take over his mind again.

Once he’s done, he tells Benjen that Jon had wanted to meet him in the Godswood once he was free, and left for the training yard. 

At some point, Sansa has left the group planning strategy in the Great Hall, and sits along one of the posts in the training yard with her bow across her lap, watching the others train in spite of the snow. Bran joins her. 

Arya, Meera and Brienne are taking turns switching off with weapons. They aren’t taking up much space. Most of the yard is being taken up by Val and Ygritte running through the Free Folk women and children who have made their way to Winterfell. From children barely old enough to learn their letters, to women old enough to wed, they show what they can do with a spear or bow or axe. Val and Ygritte are rather ruthlessly tagging those who need to evacuate with the group the next morning.

“It won’t do any good if you stay if you can’t fight,” Val insists slowly, “You may think you’re being brave, but all that will happen if you die, is you’ll become one of them. A mindless, ice blooded, blue eyed abomination who could be responsible for the deaths of your friends and family.”

Ygritte doesn’t add anything, but if any of the children try to mouth off, she will go into details on the ones she picked off over the wall. How they barely even looked human anymore and seemed to be able to stand up and shake off near anything. She has lots of these stories. 

“Just watching from the sidelines today?” Bran asks Sansa.

Sansa laughs softly. 

“I’m going to be evacuating anyway, not right away, I’ll wait until the last group out of Winterfell...but it was foolish to think I was ever going to be a soldier.”

“No one ever thought you would be a soldier,” Bran insists, “Very few here are. But we all understood your reasons for joining with the rest of us. Human monsters are different from ones from Old Nan’s stories.”

Bran’s quiet for a moment. He watches the women spar. Meera catches his eye for a moment, and Bran feels the back of his neck go red. Sansa pretends not to notice. 

“I’m not staying either,” he admits, “I’ll leave when you do. I’m a hundred times better a fighter than I was...but I can’t run away. If someone corners me, I’m a goner. Like you, I’m not a soldier.”

Sansa gazes upwards at the sky. It’s dark gray, it’s been that way for over a week now. It seems to be getting darker, like the very weather knows what’s to come. Or maybe they just weren’t paying attention the first time. 

She turns her eyes back to the training yard, and squints,

“Where did Arya go?”

“Gendry came out a second ago, said something and they went back towards the smithy.”

What Gendry had come to tell her was that he’d finished with the set of chainmail he’d made for her. 

“I’m going to make the other ladies at the training yard so jealous,” she tells him while pulling it into place.

“I’ve got more punched out,” he tells her, “Mail’s easier to make from approximate measurements. If there’s gaps in plate armor, it’s worthless. I’ve got another hauberk I made for Meera when I made yours, but she didn’t want it.”

“She doesn’t like mail,” Arya comments, “Says arrows can break straight through it. Prefers leather.”

“Well thankfully,” Gendry replies, patting her shoulders and planting a kiss on her, “We have most of the arrows.”

Arya’s quiet for too long, and she shakes her head, darkness behind her eyes. Gendry’s hands have moved to her cheeks, concerned, and she indulges herself by kissing him full on the mouth, tongue slipping between his lips. 

This is what Sansa gets a glimpse of, before turning at the door and leaving. She can talk to Arya later.

It would be a lie to say she doesn’t feel a twist of envy in her chest. She seems to feel this twist nearly everywhere she goes now. The impending darkness is making the people of Winterfell cling to each other. Ned and Catelyn seem to have somehow, silently mended their fences. Meera had made an offhand comment that Summer wouldn’t leave her be nowadays, making her ears grow pink. Even Val seems to have settled in. Sansa had overheard her speaking to some of the other Free Folk women and had heard a snippet of ‘Didn’t know southern boys had it in ‘em!’.

She thinks to the letter she sent with Theon, and wonders if there’s any chance for her to find someone to cling to, even if it’s later, among the ashes. 

When she needs a moment to distract herself, she finds herself seeking out Brienne. 

“Lady Sansa” she greets her every time, even in defiance of Sansa’s laughing that it was unnecessary. 

Sansa looks at her for a bit before speaking. 

“You seem to be taking this all quite well.”

“All what, my lady?”

Sansa’s mouth puckers. She would think she was being mocked if that was so incredibly unlike Brienne.

“You follow us here, to a place you’ve never been before, and we’re all going on about fighting a war against the dead, and you don’t bat a single eye.”

Brienne shrugs. She’s so tall, that in armor even her shrugs have a note of intimidation, well, they would if it weren’t for the entirely innocent look on her face. 

“As sworn shield, it is my duty to defend Lady Shireen, whether it be from nursery tale monsters or ordinary men. In my experience, there’s not always a difference.”

True enough. She continues,

“And it doesn’t matter much if I believe it or not. They’ll come or not regardless.”

Sansa studies Brienne. Even before, she had been the picture of loyalty, in face of incredible odds. 

“Lady Shireen is quite sensible,” Sansa comments, “Protecting her shouldn’t give you too much trouble.”

She lets the silence sit between them heavy for a bit. 

“You were the truest knight I ever met before,” she tells Brienne quietly. 

Brienne’s response is halting, 

“My lady, I-”

Sansa shushes her. 

“You were. Both by the technical definition, and in every word you spoke and every step you walked. You were brave and honorable, and always defended those who needed you.”

How foolish her younger self would have thought her. Admiring a plain faced women who wore armor and carried a sword, who was often seen in the company of Jamie Lannister at that. But Sansa has known enough false knights to know the value of a true one. Sansa’s word speaks the truth. 

“And if you’re willing to stay here and fight with us, then the north will be in your debt.”

**Dragonstone**

Danaerys Targaryen is an impressive figure. Head held high, surrounded by her attendants as she walks towards the castle off her dragon. 

Tyrion’s heard the stories, if only second hand from Varys. Of how she walked into the fire and remained unscathed, bring forth three baby dragons. Of her purchase and freeing of the Unsullied, of her takeover of Slaver’s Bay, and renaming it.

They’re great stories.

Despite this, most of what Tyrion can think when he sees her is, “She’s barely more than a girl.”

A girl who managed all of that, though. And with the flying figures behind her on the water, makes the stories easy to believe. 

Once they sit at the table and begin to talk things out, the situation grows hair. 

“You’re only allies here, present company excluded,” Varys points out, “Are a population known entirely as raiders and pirates. You’re combined forces could probably take Storm’s End, and secure this keep, if nature did not decide to keep you out. But beyond these borders, you will be met with hostility and a great deal of military might.”

Hostility, Tyrion thinks, in the form of his own family. He wonders if the punishment for a traitor is as harsh as that for a kinslayer. 

The arguments over the table go back and forth and Tyrion feels like he spends a part of every day glancing over his shoulder, and the horizon, for whatever is going to ambush them, and crush this whole thing in one blow. 

Somehow the only thing that comes over the horizon is a merchant’s boat, carrying Theon Greyjoy. 

The young man has not changed physically much since Tyrion had seen him last at Winterfell, but given that their meeting does not involve a single dwarf joke, he supposes he must have matured some. 

Watching the lad reunite with his older sister is the greatest entertainment Tyrion has had in years though. Between Theon’s exclamations that Yara used to resemble a fat little boy, and that despite her age, Yara could still overpower him with an expert knuckle burn, Tyrion sips his wine and just watches. There’s shades there of his relationships with his own brother and sister, unmarred by years of bad faith.

But Theon does not just bring news of the north, nor did he come to bend the knee in their stead. 

“I come to inform you,” he begins in a voice that is half dead serious, half seriously practiced, “that the north is currently in heavy preparation for an incoming invasion from the far north...of creatures from stories. Of the dead, risen from the earth at the hands of creatures like men with skin of ice.”

Yara howls from her spot at the table.

“Are there grumkins too?”

Theon looks like he’s fighting the urge to stick his tongue out at her.

“Nearly seven years ago, three of the younger Stark children...transformed. They began to speak of things that had not happened yet, including the coming of these creatures. I watched this happen, and I watched as Wildlings began to flee south of the wall in increasing numbers...and began to speak of the exact same things the Starks were.”

Tyrion’s mind begins to prickle when Theon’s story continues. It was strange enough, having the story dropped on him in the form of a rambling letter and a single personal secret, but for someone who saw the Starks everyday, it must have been so much worse.

Danaerys interrupts him for a moment, 

“I’m afraid I’m not sure what your story is getting at...rather than bending the knee, the Starks are requesting my aid. If this is true, I would ask why this is a more pressing concern than retaking the throne that is my birthright.”

Theon nods, ever so slightly. He speaks a bit about the other things the younger Starks had warned them of, of the treacherous state of the politics of King’s Landing. But he ends the discussion with,

“Because if the Others get past the north, then the whole realm is in danger.”

This is completely true. Tyrion never paid the most attention to old nurse stories, but he remembered the tale of the Long Night. 

Danaerys seems to be thinking about it, when Varys interrupts. 

“If I may, your grace? The seven kingdoms may not be the most welcoming to a Targaryen seeking to regain her throne. But one who swooped in with three dragons during an unexpected war against beings who are- remind me Greyjoy? Vulnerable to fire-”

Theon nods. 

“It may become easy to spin you as a war hero. One who returns home to Westeros after becoming known for ending slavery. These are the sorts of things the smallfolk could get behind.”

Danaerys seems to be considering this proposal. While the discussion continues, Tyrion excuses himself and finds Theon does as well.

When they are out of earshot, he hands Tyrion a thick letter. 

“This was given to me under pain of death if I so much as glanced at it.”

Tyrion turns it over, finding Sansa’s neat hand on the envelope. 

“To be frank,” Theon starts, “If Sansa has any goodwill towards you after her...last life, I say take it. Those years ago I watched her transform from a silly, empty headed little girl into possibly the most cynical woman I have ever met. Sometimes I-”

Theon rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. 

“Sometimes I catch her, or one of the others looking at me. Sometimes they look frightened, but sometimes they look...like they’re expecting me to act a certain way, and when I don’t they’re...disappointed, but not surprised. If she still holds in any esteem, I’d count yourself lucky.”

Tyrion mulls over his words for the rest of the night, and doesn’t pull out the letter until it’s late and he’s sure he’s alone. 

The handwriting is neat, and the salutation formal. After that, the tone degrades quickly.

_I’m sorry for leaving you the way we did. It was cruel to do so. Soemtimes I feel I’ve forgotten how not to be cruel. _

_I suppose you’ve surmised the truth from my blathering before we parted. When I was fourteen, the two of us were forced to marry, your father’s work, in an attempt to keep hold of the north. Despite the situation, you tried so hard to never upset me, to never hurt me. You will probably insist that that’s not much, but at the time, it felt like everything. During that period of my first life, I didn’t get kindness from many people, and every little bit of it is precious to me. You would shake me off, I know. Sometimes it hurts to know how little you think of yourself._

_In the past few years, I feel like the two of us could at least call ourselves friends. Some might say that’s a poor basis for a relationship, but given the disasters I’ve seen, I think it’s better than most. I’m saying this, mostly because I think there’s a very good chance one or both of us could perish in the coming war, and I had to at least try. _

_I’m not sure if I would even know what love is anymore. I’m not sure I would recognize it. But if we manage to both survive all of this, the dragons and the others and the fire and blood...then I’d like to see if we could find it. The both of us._

Tyrion stares at the paper, and then tucks it away. 

The next day, Danaerys decides that she should fly north with one of her dragons, to at least see what’s happening in the north.

**The Wall**

Stannis had sent for aid. He sent it to every fucking house in Westeros. 

The northern houses had responded, even if in such meager numbers. 

But at least they had responded.

“More are attacking the gate,” a greenboy tells him, 

“Then hold it. Don’t let it fall. If it falls, this will all be for naught.”

Many at the wall have fled. Those who remain are the most devoted, or the most desperate. Those with the least hope for their lives. 

Stannis can’t stop to think that they are fighting dead men. They are merely the enemy, attacking the wall that must stand. They will fight until they cannot. He spares a thought to Shireen, hoping that she is still safe in Winterfell. He does not spare one for Selyse, though he assumes the other Baratheon men must have helped her flee when he ordered them away. Perhaps that god that she's begun to speak of little more than will give her some comfort.

The sky is dark gray, carrying with it the blizzard that should slow down the impending army, but instead is just making it worse. 

There’s an explosion somewhere. There is only one cache of wildfire left. As many as they seem to burn, there are always more. 

“Take the last, run for the Last Hearth. Come back with anyone you can find,” Stannis orders, “The wall cannot fall.”

The sound of the flames cackling among the snow reaches his ears. The sound of screams too, human and beast both. He tightens his hand around his sword. 

Stannis has spent his whole life thinking of his duty. Perhaps, in this moment, he can call upon his house’s words. Ours is the fury.

There’s thumping sounds, and metal scraping, and screaming. Stannis readies himself. He will lead his men, he will be among the first in the fray. 

The nightswatchmen he sent to the Last Hearth does not desert. He gathers everyone he can find, and they race back to the Shadow Tower. 

They find it fallen, the gate broken through, litrered with blood and bits of bodies, burned. And the man finds Stannis Baratheon, dutiful to his last breath. They find him at the mouth of the gate, completely still, his limbs twisted and broken. They say a blessing. And then he screams. 

The fire of nightswatchman’s torch is enough this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I find Danaerys difficult to write, and her storyline rather impenetrable. There might be lots of glossing over there. And while I definitely think she was being set up for a villain role, the writers did not sell it in the least. So she went out a hero in this little exercise.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little note that I'm sticking to GRRM's disclaimer that not all of these segments in a particular chapter take place simultaneously; this is especially important for the last bit of the previous chapter and the conclusion of this one.

**Winterfell**

By the time news of Stannis’s death reaches Winterfell, all but the last group of evacuees have left. 

The first group leaves for Bear Island on schedule. Gilly and her sisters are with them, unwilling to put little Sam in the line of danger. Osha goes with them too. Even after the years she spent with Davos helping evacuate the Free Folk via sea, she still quakes at the thought of seeing one of them rise again.

Hodor leaves with them too, helping all of them to carry both supplies are many of the children. He remains short of speech, but his eyes sparkle again with understanding. 

The day that the first group of evacuees leave, Jon gathers Benjen into the Godswood so they can speak to Rowan. 

“Never thought I would see the likes of you again,” Benjen tells the small figure seated beneath the weirwood.

“It seems all of our lives have taken interesting turns,” she agrees.

Jon takes a breath, and asks, 

“I wanted to ask you Benjen, about when Rowan stopped the Others ice magic from killing you, how did it work?”

Benjen is solemn before asking Rowan, 

“Did you show him how the others came to be?”

Rowan nods.

Benjen sighs. 

“Much the same way. I was stabbed by a walker’s sword of ice, but the dragonglass stopped it from spreading. The same thing that brought them into this world stops their magic from spreading.”

Jon nods. He could figure much of this out by extrapolation, but the confirmation is interesting. Both dragonglass and Valyrian steel are supposedly born in fire, symbolically it should be the antithesis to ice.

“I imagine Rowan said that if anyone removed the shard she put in, you would either die or the ice magic would make you a wight?”

Benjen nods, and Rowan looks at Jon knowingly. 

“What is on your mind today, Jon?”

“Rowan,” he asks, chewing his lip, “The shard of dragonglass that was put in the night king by the children all those ages ago, do you suppose it’s still there?”

Rowan’s response is slow, uncertain. 

“I suppose it must be.”

Jon’s throwing things in his mind out at this point. 

“My sister Arya said she killed the night king before with a dagger made of Valyrian steel. It killed him, but did not stop the dead from rising. You claim you believe the crosses you buried north of the wall shall stop this now, but I imagine that would change if you went back and dug them up. What would happen if we removed the shard from the Night King's body?”

Rowan nods softly, 

“A worthy question. Though I cannot imagine it will be an easy endeavor, and it's impossible to know for sure if it will be successful.”

Jon touches the heart tree. 

“I’ll file it away. Today, I’m just going to ask the trees about the state of the north.”

“Don’t spend too long out here Jon,” Rowan reminds him, “I would hate to lose you to the trees.”

There are weirwoods throughout the north, both deep in the forests and in the godswoods of every keep. There aren’t as many as beyond the wall, but there are enough to tell Jon the answers he seeks. The trees, thankfully, are brief. The land is anticipating, it recognizes the darkening sun. There is nothing dead afoot it, but it senses it coming. Even trees know of death and decay.

When Jon looks at Benjen, he thinks of the conversation they had the first night, when Bran explained the Night King would likely flock to Winterfell because he had marked Benjen the same he had Bran the time before. When Ned asks if he is sure, Bran can only shake his head. 

Ned had asked if he thought it was a better idea to send him somewhere harder to access in an attempt to slow the army of the dead down, Bran can only shake his head again in indecision. They simply could not know, and Winterfell still has the most of the north’s forces, despite the rest having spread out in line like Ned had ordered.

The next waves of evacuations go well too. Davos leads several groups to ships in White Harbor, heading for Dorne and the Vale. Not in numbers high enough to cause alarm, but with no assurance of what will happen once they arrive, especially when if they decide to tell of what's happening. 

Most of the remaining household leaves with Catelyn. It’s a fair set of timing, when she receives a letter from her brother Edmure, saying that their father is quite sick and would like to see her. 

“I’m terrified they will ask me too many questions about Lysa,” Catelyn admits to Sansa the night before they will leave. It seems such a petty worry. 

Sansa shakes her head. 

“Tell the truth. That it had been so long that it felt like you didn’t know your sister anymore at all.”

The best lies have a kernel of truth in them after all, she thinks but does not say. 

Catelyn nods. Most the servants seem pleased to leave with her. Sansa doesn’t really have a good grasp on what the household of Winterfell really understands about what’s coming. If she ever had to do all of this again, Sansa thinks she would have explained it better, been more empathetic to what was no doubt a terrifying and confusing prospect. 

The night before she leaves, Catelyn and Ned lie together in their bed, talking into the wee hours of the morning. Words have not passed between them over the void in their relationship over the past several years, but somehow that gap has been breached once again.

“Our children…” Catelyn softly intones, “They are all part of this fight, even the ones who leave. Do you believe they can withstand this?”

“They must,” Ned replies grimly, “They know what will happen if they don’t.”

And both of them know they will not survive the loss of their children.

It’s strange, but Catelyn feels a deep tug in her heart at the thought of leaving Winterfell. She had spent so long feeling like a fish out of water here that it was strange to acknowledge how much Winterfell had become an indelible part of her, more so than her childhood home could claim to be now.

In the morning, before they say farewell, Ned and Catelyn bid Davos to accompany them south, and then to return to his own family. 

“You’ve suffered enough for the north,” Ned assures him, “In both lifetimes. I release you from whatever duty you feel may be keeping you here.”

Davos cannot leave without saying his farewells to Shireen. 

“Stay safe, little one.”

Shireen grins bashfully. 

“Don’t talk like I’m not going to see you again Onion Knight. You’re going away from most of the danger. Besides, when this is all done I have to haul all these papers down to the Citadel so I can talk at them for years.”

Davos laughs. Shireen grew up strong willed, that makes him proud. He kisses her forehead. 

“Remember to pay me a visit then.”

While she’s still lingering at the breakfast table, Catelyn is approached by Ygritte. It shocks her a bit. She had done her best to pay the wildling girl no mind. Ever since her conversation with Jon in the Godswood that night, she’s tried just to let him be. 

The girl sits on the bench beside her, chewing a bit of sausage. 

“It’s funny,” she tells Catelyn, “The way Jon always spoke of you, I thought you must have horns.”

She’s not surprised, she’s really not. 

“I imagine he must have spoken of me resentfully.”

Ygritte chews thoughtfully, and swallows. 

“Not really no. Jon always spoke of how you treated him, and how he wished he could make you understand, but he didn’t really seem to resent you. In fact, sometimes it felt like he believed all the things you used to say about him.”

The gods’ punishment for those words, Catelyn thinks. Ygritte keeps going though. 

“No horns at all, just a woman, though I should know myself how cruel we can be. When Jon met me, it was though he thought I had a biting fish where my nethers are. “

“Was there something you wanted to say to me?” Catelyn interrupts, rather rudely, especially for her. She tries not to be put off by the wild girl’s crudeness, tells herself that she can’t have known any better, but sometimes it slips through.

Ygritte shrugs in response, 

“Wanted to see for myself if you did understand. Wanted to see if I thought you were worthy of him wanting that understanding from you. You’re not a beast either way. I would have told him off if he’d spent so much of his life seeking the approval of a beast.”

She then stands and walks away, and Catelyn isn’t any more certain of what Ygritte’s estimation of her is. 

When they’re preparing to leave, Catelyn notes Arya’s eyes growing teary. Even though she’s fully grown, Catelyn still takes a moment to wipe her face clean. Arya squeezes her extra tight. She squeezes each of her children extra tight.

Robb even quivers a bit in her arms. 

“You guided me all that you could, even when Father was gone. I’m not sure if I can keep going without you.”

“You can and you will.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Shireen hugging Ser Davos, and hears her say, 

“Keep them safe Onion Knight.”

She saves Ned for last, letting him hold her hands gently in his own, as gently as he still holds her heart. 

“Keep our home safe,” she implores him. 

“It’s not our home unless we’re in it. Remember that.”

Catelyn can barely drag herself away.

Once this party leaves for the South, there’s a void in Winterfell. The sky is darker and darker gray every single day. 

“Was it like this last time?” Arya asks, hand against her brow, gazing into the grayness. She can’t remember.

“I’m not sure actually,” Bran admits, “I was too stuck in my own head. “

“I think we just blamed it on regular winter. Thought it was from the blizzards. Didn’t realize it seemed unnatural,” Sansa muses. 

Meals in the Great Hall are sparsely attended now, but nearly everyone crowds around as few tables as possible. 

One day during breakfast, Sansa asked, “Do you think we’ll start forgetting our first lives?”

Arya looks at her funny, she had never even considered that. Her first life was as real to her as what she ate for supper last night.

Bran is the first to break the silence, 

“I hope we don’t. I don’t want to forget my mistakes.”

“It might happen regardless,” Meera interjects, “I’ve seen it with some very old people, they start to forget things more and more as times goes on. It’s sad.”

Sansa’s been thinking of it a lot. Part of her feels like her memories of her trials waning would be good. Like it would make her feel freer. But Bran is right, she doesn’t want to forget what she’s learned along the way. 

It’s at another one of these quiet breakfasts that they learn of Stannis’s fate. 

It’s not a dramatic one as far as visions go, and only Shireen notices when Jojen stops eating his porridge and begins to slump. She grabs Meera’s arm quickly, and between the two of them, they manage to lower him gently to the floor before the most violent parts of the shaking begin. 

When he comes down and is trying to sober back up, only Arya notices that Bran’s eyes have gone white. As soon as Jojen is upright and can speak, his eyes meet Bran’s. 

“The wall has fallen,” Jojen begins. 

“The dead have broken through,” Bran continues. 

There’s another long pause before either of them speak again, and when they do, it’s Bran. 

“Stannis Baratheon is dead. He stayed fighting until the very end.”

Even still unbalanced by his vision, Jojen can see Shireen sink downward and begin to cry. 

It’s stupid, Shireen thinks to herself, that she would still cry over him, even after everything the others have said. Her tears are interrupted by Arya leaning over and squeezing her shoulders.

“Don’t think too much about what we’ve told you about the man he was,” Arya tells her consolingly. “You didn’t know that man. Grieve for the man you knew, the father he was to you.”

Shireen’s sobs ease but do not end, and Sansa grabs one of her hands and squeezes, and Jojen does the same with her other, and all of them just crowd around each other for a little while. 

After a spell, Shireen quietly asks Bran, 

“Did you see what happened to my mother?”

Bran shakes his head. Shireen nods softly. 

After another spell, Sansa stands. 

“I’m going to talk to Father. If the wall’s breached, the last of us should evacuate as soon as we possibly can.”

When Sansa’s making her brisk walk through Winterfell to Ned’s solar, Lady finds and trails behind her. She pets her head gently. Her and Summer are the only of the wolves who still stays close. Ghost is as comfortable at Jon’s side as away from it. Grey Wind is in the Godswood during the times he’s not over the walls with Nymeria’s pack, and Shaggydog could be anywhere on any given day. 

Sansa’s chest tightens thinking of Rickon. He was still so young, but had steadfastly refused to evacuate with the others and he had gained enough skill with both sword and bow that no one, wildling or northerner could refuse him even though he didn’t even have a beard yet, and Sansa wondered if he taken any of their stories to heart at all.

Ned is at his desk when Sansa enters. He looks up, sees the look on her face, sighs and rubs his temple. 

“How long do we have?”

Sansa shakes her head. They don’t know. Weeks maybe. The Night King doesn’t have Viserion this time, and that’s a comfort. 

“I’m going to alert everyone,” she tells him, “We’ll evacuate as soon as possible.”

She then freezes, and finds herself shaking a bit, before letting out a sob. Ned stands and wraps his arms around her. 

“Please tell me we’re doing the right thing. We’ve known this was coming for years, and we still couldn’t stop it. They’re still coming.”

Ned makes soothing noises, as if she were still a babe, not a woman grown who could look him in the eye.

“You’ve done everything you could,” he insists. “We are as prepared as we can be. All you can do now is try and keep yourselves safe.”

Sansa sniffs, and pauses long enough to let the feeling of Ned’s arms soak into her, before backing off, and getting to the work of alerting the others.

It takes approximately a day and half to gather everyone. There’s less than fifty of them in total, the lot who refused to leave until the very end mixed with the very most essential of the castle staff. Everyone will be stoking their own fires, carrying their own water, and gathering their own meals until this whole ordeal is over.

The morning of, Sansa watches Shireen talking to Brienne. 

“If you think you can be of help here, then stay. You’ve done far more than promised for me, and the others say we’ll be much safer in the swamp, and everyone here can help keep me safe.”

Sansa moves up and puts her hands on Shireen’s shoulders. 

“We won’t let anything happen to her, and you would be an asset to our army if you’re willing to take the risk.”

Brienne stills before nodding. She has never stepped down from a fight where someone needed her. She won’t now either. 

Ned is seeing them off. 

“I’ll send a message with a raven when we get in,” Bran assures him. He was bringing Una with them, the rest of the ravens he was letting fly free over the north. His bond with them now was as such that they could warg them even when he wasn’t sure where they were. 

Ned asks Meera, 

“You’re sure you can guide this group even in the snow?”

She nods. She had commented a week or so ago about leading the last of the evacuees into the Neck. Sansa had opened her mouth to ask why she would leave. Meera had always trained just as hard as Arya and the others, she had always thought she would stay and fight. But then she realizes the other woman won’t meet her eye, so she closes her mouth and lets it go unquestioned. At least they will have a proper guide, one who can get the forty something odd of them safe among the mostly-frozen bogs.

She regards Gendry fondly, and asks him,

“Did you ever finish your hammer?”

He nods proudly.

“It’s not Valyrian steel, but it should knock down and break the dead apart easy enough.”

When Sansa goes to hug Arya goodbye, she realizes with shock that she’s crying, openly. Sansa can count on the fingers of one hand how many times she’s seen her sister cry.

“This feels like the end,” she tells Sansa through her tears. Sansa reaches out to grip her wrists in her hands. 

“This is not the end,” Sansa insists, “We will win this, we nearly did before, we will again.”

Arya shakes her head. 

“It’s not just that. It feels like this might be the last time we’re all together like this, here in Winterfell. I’m just not sure I’m ready to let go yet.”

Sansa doesn’t let Arya’s words tear at her heart, or sneak into her mind. She embraces her sister, and tries to put everything she feels into the embrace. 

When the group mount their horses to leave, she tries not to look back. She tries not to think of gathering before, with the others in the crypts. That had seemed such a safe idea then. That illusion of safety had been torn to bits. She hopes this time it isn’t. 

**In the skies over Westeros**

Danaerys isn’t sure why she chose to fly Rhaegal on her trip north, but it works well enough. She didn’t want to worry about how to deal with Drogon’s more aggressive tendencies. 

It was strange, seeing the country she’d long thought to be her birthright from the air. From up here, all the people seemed tiny, like ants. She wonders if this is what her children must think all of the time, and muses on what it must have been like for them to grow from being so much smaller. 

The cities and towns space out as she travels north. Perhaps some will see her flight, and word will travel. Good, she wasn’t sure if surprise was her best option truly. 

Passing the vast expanse of land is strange. She’s heard stories over her life of what Westeros is like, but no one had ever spoken much on the north, a few seemed even to regard it as an untamed land full of rough, uncivilized people. Seeing it from the sky, she understands a bit. It is a wild land, it seemed sensible for it to have bred a wild people. 

She shivers aboard Rhaegal. Theon had warned her about the weather, and she had tried to dress appropriately, but knowing it academically and feeling the cold seep into her bones were very different things. Theon had insisted on leaving Dragonstone the same time she did, though he admitted he knew she would beat him north by a long shot. He said he could not in good conscience not return to the people who raised him, knowing full well what kind of danger they could be facing. 

She’s never seen snow before, and now it was falling all around her. She’s thankful for Rhaegal’s fire, helping keep her visibility clear. 

She’s crossed over a thick forest when she sees the first disturbance in the landscape. 

Lines of figures on the ground, engaged in battle. She can’t make anything clear out from her height, but she recognizes the movements. She also recognizes that many of the figures do not appear human. True, they were shaped similar to humans, but they did not move like them. No humans walked and fell and climbed atop each other like these were. There are beasts among them too, bears and cats and even a mammoth or two, Danaerys would swear, but they all lurch and stumble like the humanoid ones. 

She watches as many of the figures overwhelm the stony shape of a keep she cannot name. It is a small one, but it’s like watching fire ants crawl over a young child and begin to bite it. She cannot hear screams, but she can imagine them. She thinks of having Rhaegal burn, but she can’t see what she’s aiming at well enough, doesn’t know what she will hit.

She feels fear coil in her belly, but continues the journey. There’s a fire burning in one of the woods, the flames a bright spot on a horizon near dark as night. 

And then, Danaerys watches as the ground itself begins to quake and shift. Even in the sky, she feels as though she should shake as well. She can’t see the source of the movement, but feels this is a good time to turn and return, and gather the others. 

She’s not sure where she is when she can feel the sun again despite the snow. She would almost say it was like the sky opened back up to let it through.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW in this chapter for references to domestic violence

**The Kingsroad**

The Kingsroad is blessedly quiet, as the ice on the trees twinkles. Once the marshes begin, the path becomes some of the only solid ground to stand and walk on.

Most of the travelers huddle around the small fires they can build under the oil cloth tents for something resembling warmth. The north was cold, they all knew it, but being out and exposed like this, feeling it seep down to your bones out of the protection of stone walls, was very different.

Lady and Summer had both trailed behind the party, loyal as ever to their humans, but uncertain on the water and ice logged ground. Swamps were not places for wolves.

Around the fire one evening, Sansa notices Bran and Meera off talking by themselves. It wouldn’t concern her, but their heads are moving as though they’re arguing, and she’s never known them to be cross with each other.

“What’s going on?” she asks as she approaches. Bran jerks in surprise and when Meera shakes her head at him, he responds with, “we’re going to have to tell her eventually”. 

Meera won’t meet her eyes again, but she eventually lets tumble out, 

“I’m with child.”

Sansa’s words disappear from her throat, her mouth going dry even as her mind makes sense of her thoughts.

Eventually, she manages a, 

“Is it strange I almost want to say congratulations?”

Bran lets out a strange, almost hacking laugh, and Meera shakes her head again. Sansa’s voice softens. 

“Is that what you were fighting about?”

Meera opens her mouth, 

“No. We were arguing because despite that, I still feel like a coward for leaving.”

Bran reaches out to touch her shoulder, and she jerks away.

“I keep telling you, you’re not-”

She cuts him off, 

“You’re not the one who’s been followed by the whispers your whole life. Even after all these years, some of the servants at Winterfell still do it. That we prefer to hide rather than fight, and that when we do fight we don’t fight fair. You told me from your vision that my father stabbed Ser Arthur Dayne in the back....It’s hard not to take it to heart.”

She leaves Bran and Sansa at this point to tend to her horse. Sansa thinks of what she could tell Meera later, to try and console her. 

Bran speaks first after she’s left. 

“We knew before we left Winterfell. We didn’t say anything because I didn’t want anyone to whisper, to think poorly of her. I know the whispers she’s talking about, I hear them too. One of the maids called me a frog kisser once. She called Shireen the same, and I had to explain to her what it meant, I’ve never seen her so mad.”

Sansa feels a smile creep at the corner of her lips. Bran was always the kindest of them.

“So I take it you do intend to marry her?”

Bran looks at her, upwards through the snowflakes. He tucks his knees up against his chest in an attempt to keep warm. 

“Provided her father doesn’t just take my head off first. He could.”

Sansa laughs.

“I don’t think he will," She pauses with a grin, "Arya will be angry if she misses your wedding.”

Sansa’s mouth freezes, and Bran nods. They can’t think of Arya right now, still back in Winterfell. 

Up in front of the part, she can hear Jojen pointing out things in the trees to Shireen. She can make out,

“Glad that it’s winter. It’s hard to appreciate the place when you’re being swarmed by biting flies everywhere you go-”

Sansa chuckles. She turns to Bran,

“Arya was right, wasn’t she? We’re all headed our separate ways.”

Bran’s eyes are soft, faraway. 

“Is that such a bad thing though? It means we’ve moved out from under the shadow of the past.”

He gets up now, and goes to sit beside Meera again, on the far side of the fire. Sansa can’t hear them from here, but she can see as Meera’s stiff posture softens, and Bran lean to rest his head on her shoulder. She is pleased for them truly. 

She should tell Meera that it’s not all cowardly to want to protect someone small, someone who can not protect themselves. That, in fact, it is what she’s spent two lives proving she is very good at. 

Though, Sansa also muses, that their mother will still probably be horrified. Bran had always been her favorite. At least they can probably be vague about the timing now.

Shadows of the past, Sansa thinks. Now if only she could.

**Winterfell**

Ned approaches the breakfast table, only hearing a little bit of the discussion going on. He hears Arya reply to a question from Ygritte with something about “nice one’s do,” while Gendry turns red beside her, and so he coughs. 

“Lord Stark,” Ygritte acknowledges him.

“The Last Hearth has fallen,” Ned tells them, and all at once any mirth is gone. 

“So that’s maybe a week,” Arya interjects. “We’ll step up the guards.”

The Night’s Watchmen who manage to flee from the Last Hearth bring with them a single cache of wildfire. No one still seemed to know when it was appropriate to use. 

“We had dug a trench,” Arya comments, “that we lit last time, but I don’t think we could keep it contained.”

At the moment, Ned decides just to keep it handy. 

The days get grayer and the nights get darker.

Jon spends much time in the Godswood, along with Rowan, and occasionally with Ygritte. 

Ygritte has found herself in an odd position at Winterfell. It’s not that she hasn’t been welcomed, but sometimes she still feels like she sticks out, a bit of fire against frozen stone. 

She had tried to speak with Val a bit about it. Once over supper, she had asked,

“Do you really think you’ll survive here, being a southern Lady and it all?”

Val had shrugged. The white furs she wears already make her look somewhat regal, among the richly dressed nobles of the south. She had spoken to Ygritte a bit about an odd conversation she’d had with Robb the morning after the wedding. She had asked him why, in particular, he was so devoted to Winterfell. 

“It’s my birthright,” he had explained, “The north and all the people in it are under my protection, and their lives and livelihoods are my responsibility.”

“But it’s only yours because you were born to the right father,” Val had insisted. Robb had shrugged. 

“But I’ve always known I was born for this, and everyone around me too. Everything I’ve been taught has been because it was my responsibility, whether I wanted it or not.”

He had smiled softly. 

“I do understand the desire the Free Folk have for freedom. No one telling you what you’re supposed to be. But if not me, the responsibility might fall to someone who’s not prepared for it. Or who only wants it for the power. I don’t want that for my people.”

Val could understamd that. 

“They gave me the title and the name, they better accept me as is, cause this is what they’re getting.”

It’s something for her to think about. She has a lot to think about lately. Sometimes she does, sometimes she just shoots arrows and practices with Wild Thing, now with a spear tip made of dragonglass, just in case. 

One snowy evening in the Godswood, Ygritte purses her lips and says, 

“What are you even asking the trees for?”

Jon looks at her. 

“I ask if they have seen anything, it lets us have a heads up on the army of the dead’s location.”

Ygritte cocks her head. 

“Why don’t you ask them if they can help us?”

Jon furrows his brow. 

“They’re trees.”

Ygritte runs her hand along the carved face of the weirwood. 

“You saw the roots of one of these beneath that cave, and that was one that was long dead. Tree roots reach so far, far more than the crown of leaves, and they run straight through the ground underneath us…”

Jon chews his lip in thought. 

Later that day, Arya joins him. She sits beneath the weirwood, and rubs her hand in Ghost’s fur. 

She looks at him oddly, as though not sure how to say what she’s trying to. 

“Do you ever...dream that you’re Ghost?”

Jon is surprised. 

“Now and then, but they aren’t always vivid.”

Arya frowns, and continues petting Ghost. 

“You should try. Bran can warg Summer as well as he can any of his birds, other animals too. Sansa used to talk about warging Lady so she had eyes in the Red Keep. Sometimes I swear Rickon and Shaggydog are actually one and the same.”

Arya bites her lip. 

“I’ve never tried warging Nymeria deliberately...I was never sure if she would even let me in, she’s so wild. But now…”

The wolf pack has been gathering around Winterfell, muzzles clenched and growling in the lean winter. 

“If we can get in their heads, it could mean life or death for someone in the vanguard.”

Arya doesn’t have the heart to mention that she’s going to be up on the ramparts with the other archers, she’s too small to be among those on the ground this time. She tries not to think of what Meera told her about chainmail, and finds a set of leather to wear underneath. 

Evenings go much the same. Supper, rounds, guard rotations. These are the times when Arya tries to warg into Nymeria. 

“I used to dream through her eyes often enough,” she explains to Ned later on that night, “Once, even when I was across the sea in Braavos. But I haven’t in ages.”

Ned pats her on the shoulder. 

“I have no doubt you’ll be able to do it if you’re meant to.”

She tries to cling to that, but it’s with the disappointment that she returns to her chamber. 

Gendry’s supposed to be up in the early morning to arm the guard, but he’s still awake when she enters. 

“No luck again?” he asks when she holds herself stiffly while changing into the shift she sleeps in. All she can do is shake her head in response. 

“Is the hammer working out for you?” she asks, sitting on the bed beside him.

“It is. I haven’t been sparring as much as I should have, but smithing has kept the reflexes up.”

Arya’s still unusually quiet, so Gendry grasps her about the waist and pulls her over and into his lap. The night, and the time, and the position remind them both too much of another night and another battle, and a pile of grainsacks instead of a well-worn featherbed. 

Gendry rests a hand on her thigh, fingers creeping up under the edge of her shift, seeking her heat and says, “Tell me what you need.” Arya’s heart aches. He’s so strong and gruff and scarred on the outside, that she had never expected him to be so sweet in bed. Sweet, and strong enough to handle her rough edges.

Half of her wants to say, “fuck me until I forget it could be one of our last nights on earth,” and the other “hold me and kiss me and tell me everything will be fine.”

They settle for something about halfway in between.

Then the day comes when Jon rushes from the Godswood and tells everyone, 

“Before the end of the day.”

No one was exactly full of brightness before, but if possible the atmosphere quiets even more, as everyone rises and bustles about to get to their posts. 

Before she can go to climb the ramparts and join the other archers, Jon grabs Ygritte by the arm, and embraces her.

“Don’t die ok?”

Ygritte shifts in his arms, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. She had secretly been feeling a bit self conscious since arriving at Winterfell, and while she feels she’s hid it well, she is comforted by every public demonstration of Jon’s affection.

“I’m not full of rage this time. So hopefully no stupid children will put arrows in me. Unless they’re dead already.”

She stills, and grips Jon’s hand. 

“Be careful yourself too. Don’t lose yourself to the trees.”

She leaves for the ramparts, and Jon has a detour before he joins Rowan and the wildling guard in the Godswood. 

Robb, Val and Ned are on horseback outside the north gate, riding with the vanguard.

First, Jon asks Ned about Benjen. 

“Safely barricaded in the highest intact spot in the broken tower. High up, hard to climb, and difficult to storm. It’s being guarded too, in case they try and go straight for him like the others said they might.”

Jon nods, and after a deep intake of breath, reaches out and offers Robb Longclaw.

Robb’s eyes are wide. 

“Jon, this was given to you…”

Jon shakes his head. 

“Arya gave me back Dark Sister when she decided to join the archers, she still has the catspaw’s dagger on her just in case. I don’t need two swords, and you’re going to be on the ground in the thick of things.”

Robb eventually relents, accepting the sword, and trading his scabbard with the normal steel one to one of his men. Jon fingers Dark Sister as he turns to leave. A bastard sword for a bastard, he muses. It suits him well enough. 

The only other souls in the Godswood with him are Rowan and a couple of Free Folk who have volunteered to guard them, and Ghost. The wolf is the only of them that has chosen to stay by his master’s side rather than join the pack outside the wall. Jon pets his head, grateful for it. 

With a nod to Rowan, Jon sits, and touches the heart tree. He asks it about each of the other weirwoods across the north near the other parts of the army, and then, about the weirwoods that grow wild in the forests of the north. 

The answers he receives dishearten him. 

Deepwood Motte has been overrun, and it is burning. Only a few souls have remained thankfully, the refugees having successfully sailed to Bear Island. Jon imagines that they might be able to see the burning keep on the horizon. He hopes they can’t. 

Some of the other armies in the line run across the land have spotted the armies already, and they are prepared. The trenches have been dug, but only one section has successfully been lit. A snowstorm is blowing, though it does not seem to be slowing down the army of Others. 

Outside Winterfell, Jon hears a howl. 

Up on the ramparts, the archers are in a line, arrows nocked and held, waiting. The archers up here are mostly Free Folk, so thankfully they don’t have to keep to military structure. The squire tasked with keeping their quivers full and their torches lit is the daughter of one of Maege Mormont’s men, and she doesn’t look old enough to have her moon’s blood yet.

Ygritte jumps a bit when she sees Arya’s eyes go white. Arya gasps after a moment and she returns to herself. Just in time, she thought. It took until now, but it was just in time. 

“Did you see anything out there?” Ygritte asks. 

Arya purses her lips. 

“They’ve nearly made it to the trench, but there’s a rider out in front of them.”

She’s not sure who would be riding in front of an army of inhuman creatures. A mad man is all she can come up with, or maybe a hostage or a distraction.

A few minutes later, Ygritte squints at the horizon. 

“I think I see someone,” she tells Arya, and turns to the archer on her other side, “do you see?”

The other archer shakes his head. Ygritte squints harder. 

“I see a figure in red,” she says to Arya, lighting her arrow. “Should I take the shot?”

Arya’s muscles go stiff, and lets her mind relax and tries to slip back into Nymeria. 

The wolves are mostly standing at attention and Nymeria, even through the snow, can spy the rider, only a few hundred yards ahead of the others. The figure and it’s stead stand on the edge of the trench that had been dug. And the bit of Arya that is still human, feels that she recognizes the figure in the red robes. 

Well, she was always so devoted to the Lord of Light, she must know her role here. 

Slipping back into herself, she tells Ygritte, “Take the shot.”

She doesn’t even nod before loosing the arrow. It sails across the horizon, untroubled by the snow. The flame is visible enough. 

Nymeria sees the arrow hit its target, striking the figure in the neck, causing it to fall from the horse. She sees the flame catch, and spread, seemingly by itself, and fill the trench as though it were full of the most flammable oil known to man. The closest wolves retreat a bit, wary of the fire themselves. 

Only Nymeria sees the figure disintegrate before she even hits the ground. 

**King’s Landing**

Queen Margaery was not having a good day. 

Sometimes she wonders why she wanted the throne so badly. Some days she could barely restrain herself and her true thoughts. 

True, Joffrey was easy enough to control. Though often frighteningly sadistic, he was still quite childish. Stroking his ego and distraction both worked quite well. Cersei was quite another story, and Tywin Lannister was a volume to himself. 

Thankfully, Margaery had discovered an unexpected secret; they could be played against each other quite easily. 

The seeds had been planted for months, Margaery’s comments regarding Cersei’s involvement with the growing Faith Militant sect growing in the city having inflamed Tywin, who had ended up ordering Cersei to return to Casterly Rock. 

Margaery had almost thought the former queen looked happy to be leaving, and privately, Joffrey had been ecstatic to not have his mother still hovering over his shoulder. Perhaps she should have had him make the suggestion himself. 

But still…

Margaery made her way in the early morning light to the nursery, for a few moments alone with her son before the nurse awoke. Nearly a year old, Gerold Baratheon looks more like her than his father. While his creation had brought his mother no joy, the same could not be said for his existence. She hopes that his life can be his own. 

She rocks her son and thinks about the news that had come over the past few days. 

The dragon sighting had been enough, many of the smallfolk across the land swearing to the seven that had seen it crossing the winter sky. Easy enough to dismiss as a flight of fancy. 

Then the letter had come. 

Joffrey had exploded in rage during the small council meeting, and in their chambers later, he had wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed, and for a moment, Margaery had been certain she wouldn’t be able to talk him down. Even when she managed, she could still feel his fingers.

She really felt that they should take the contents of the letter more seriously. Joffrey had occasionally over the past years huffed and puffed over Danaerys Targaryen still living. Even Margaery had often dismissed the claims. Then the raven came, laden with the message that Danaerys Targaryen, first of her name, would be returning to King’s Landing to reclaim her throne, but not right away. She wrote of a conflict in the north, of creatures of myth returning, and of a need for all of the kingdoms to prepare to aid the north, or else there would be nothing for anyone to rule. 

It was too much, really. 

Not that she was even sure she believed anything about the rumors of the Others...but still. 

Some days in the capital she missed her grandmother dearly. 

She finds an unexpected ally though.

She was in the royal solar, writing a letter to Loras back in Highgarden. She knew that the Dragon queen had sent ravens to all of the seven kingdoms, with the same message and the same plea for aid, and she needed to write to him. 

The guard outside that day was none other than Jamie Lannister, and when she asked him to walk with her to the rookery to send it, she looked at him. 

“Ser,” she greets him, “Could you accompany me? I’m sending a letter to my brother.”

Pointed. The Kingslayer had been missing his sister dearly, and Margaery knew from whispers that he had had not a single bit of communication since she had left.

“Are you still at odds with your father?” she asks, trying to sound conversational. 

“Still doing his best to convince me to leave my post, return and become Lord of Casterly Rock.”

“Nonsense,” Margaery insists, “Appointment to the Kingsguard is life long. Your only duty is to your king,” she squeezes his arm. And by extension, me, she does not say out loud. 

She makes a show of selecting a raven and petting it’s head. 

“I do wish there was a more secure way to send messages,” she says, “Ravens get shot down so often.”

She turns to Jamie. 

“You served King Aerys, what do you think about the words sent by this Dragon Queen?”

Jamie’s face twitches. 

“I would fear the possibility of the return of a Targaryen monarch, as I have seen the damage one of them could bring.”

“So you would consider if part of your duty to discover the threat this, so called, Danaerys Targaryen might pose?”

Jame looks at her strangely. She smiles, and presses her message to his chest. 

“Deliver this message to my brother in Highgarden. I have asked him to raise a hundred men and ride north. The king has no army of his own, of course. Go north, find if there is truth to this threat from this so called army of the dead...and find out if there have been any more of the ‘dragon sightings.’ we have seen ahead of this queen’s message.”

“My duty is to the king.”

Margaery smiles widely. 

“Of course, kings before have extended these protections to their queens, their children, even their mistresses. Though I imagine Joffrey has never done this?”

Jamie shakes his head. Margaery nods, subtly moving her hair off of her shoulders. She wonders if the little purple bruises are still on her neck. 

“But…” she starts, “Has he ever specifically told you that you were not to extend this to me? I mean, after all, you performed these duties for the last queen.”

Jamie stands frozen. Margaery passes the paper to him. 

“Take this to Highgarden. Do what I’ve ordered. This may be the best thing you can do to keep your king safe.”

She turns away from him, and returns to her chamber. She can only hope that attempting to keep the king safe could also keep her and her son safe.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out, trying to write action is like slamming head first into a brick wall for me. Sorry for the delay!

**Greywater Watch**

Greywater Watch doesn’t really look much like a castle, either up close or from away. It rises out of the water, a mass of wood and bronze and iron rather than the more familiar stone. Rather than the defensive ramparts, the outer edges look like a series of stacked open balconies with hip height barriers, the perfect setup for positioning archers and look outs on all sides. 

Strangely enough, the impression Bran gets from seeing it is that of a ship on the sea. He’s seen it in visions, and been told of it countless times by Meera, but actually seeing it is different. 

Off to the side, Jojen is telling Shireen, 

“We lose mobility in the winter because so much freezes, but there’s more open water towards the sea that doesn’t, that’s where the fishermen try and go and drop nets, and everyone who can will row the crannogs to open water, or breaking back out in spring will be rough…”

They are met by Howland Reed, his wife, and a group of bannermen and servants that wouldn’t even fill a whole table in the Great Hall. 

Lord Reed has more gray in his hair than the last time the Starks had seen him, and he walks with a heavier step. He still smiles and greets them warmly, though Sansa cannot imagine that even this keep can hold all of their party even for a short time.

When he shakes Sansa’s hand, he cuts to the chase.

“How many?” 

“46.”

He nods at one of the other men. 

“Split them into groups, then call Fenn to gather the canoes.”

Sansa helps split the group, giving Lord and Lady Reed some privacy to reunite with their children. She only overhears bits of their conversation, though she hears Meera mumble, “Because we’re idiots who don’t think things through.”

She turns her attention to the man helping her,

“Will there be enough room for everyone?”

He nods,

“We may not have much, my lady, but down here we take guest right seriously.”

Her insides turn over, thinking of what she’s heard of House Reed’s feud with House Frey. 

Just when Sansa’s finished up with the other refugees, Jojen has stood from the table and comes to stand beside her. 

“Why does no one ever tell me anything?” he mutters grouchily.

Sansa chuckles.

“With the visions, they’re probably used to assuming you already know everything before they can say a single word.”

Eventually, they all are seated and one of the servants brings out supper. The rest of the staff appear, they all fit at the one table. Most of them greet Jojen and Meera by name, and Sansa realizes neither of them have been home in years. 

The chamber they are led to when the sun sets is small as well, divided by hanging sheets. When she stops by to say good night, Sansa catches Meera’s eye and asks,

“So when should we expect the wedding at swordspoint?”

Meera makes a face, 

“There will be no swords, no one here's being forced...tomorrow. We agreed it was better sooner than later.”

Sansa’s heartstrings are pulled. 

“You won’t be able to have your cloak made, or invite anyone-”

Meera shakes her head. 

“I told Bran- he offered to do it that same day, before anyone could question. But all I wanted was my parents here, I was never a girl who dreamed of a big wedding. And with the dead rising, this is as nice as I could even hope for.”

She leaves, and Sansa rolls on her back and tries to sleep, thinking of expectations.

The next morning, a light breakfast is eaten and arrangements are made. 

At one point Bran sighs deeply and whispers to Sansa,

“I really do wish everyone else could be here.”

“There’s a war on,” Sansa tells him grimly, and mirroring Meera's words from yesterday, “We all take what we can get.”

No one dresses up, and Meera looks like she wants to flee when Sansa offers to do her hair, but the proceedings are pleasant enough, no one even feels the need to crack jokes. In her thick furs, Meera’s not showing even a little, she’d changed out of them once they reached the keep, and in her wool tunic, Sansa can make out enough of a bump that makes her grateful for timing. 

The heart tree at Greywater Watch is a weirwood, but only a sapling, brought from the Isle of Faces before the rebellion. Soon it will be too large to grow in the crannog, and will need to be carefully dug up and planted full in the ground. It will take nearly a dozen men to carry it, and Howland says it must be done as soon as the first spring thaw.

The little group still crowds the wood a bit, but they all fit. The ceremony might be rushed, but everyone’s smiling. And if Lord Reed ends the traditional words at the heart tree with “And no one tells Lady Catelyn” to the group's murmured agreement, they will all laugh about it years from now. 

Sansa looks at Lord Reed askance, 

“Why are you taking this so much in stride?”

He laughs. 

“After last time I’ll take my children being happy no matter what form it comes. Besides, your father wrote me some moons back, he suspected this was how it was going to end for the two of them, and he approved if I did too.”

Of course he did, Sansa thought, Ned really knew them all that well. She spares at glance at Bran and Meera who are quietly walking a little apart from the others, holding hands.

There’s no feast obviously, but Lady Jyana speaks to one of the servants, and she brings out a pot of rich stew, made from a number of ingredients Sansa can’t recognize. When supper is waning, Bran finds a piece of paper and writes a letter before warging to find a raven to carry it. 

He smiles sheepishly towards Sansa. 

“Mother might be upset if she works out the timing, but she will definitely be if I don’t tell her about it right away.”

At some point, Lord Reed has left and returns to the table with a paper. 

He returns and puts it on the table. 

“I sent Ned a raven over a year ago. One of my men dug up a harp with these carved on it. He didn’t recognize them, but I thought I should show them to you just to be sure.”

Sansa looks at the markings on the paper, but can’t make heads or tails out of any of it, but she still passes it down the table.

When it reaches Jojen, he freezes, and all eyes turn to him. He pushes the piece of paper at Shireen. 

“You were reading that same book…”

Shireen furrows her eyebrows, before standing suddenly and going to fetch something from her bag. 

Jojen eyes her when she returns holding the book.

“That was from the library at Winterfell-”

“I didn’t steal it! Maester Luwin was spending all his time preparing the Great Hall or I would have asked!”

Shireen’s voice has gone squeaky, so Sansa cuts her off.

“I’ll bring it back with me when we return, it’s not a problem Shireen, you take good care of things.”

Shireen flushes a bit before, before flipping open the book and running her finger along the lines on the paper. 

“These look like runes-”

Howland nods, 

“I’ll go and get the harp.”

When he returns, Shireen is flipping roughly through pages and looking back and forth between them and the paper. 

“Here-” she says, eventually pointing at one. “This one means ‘dawn’, that’s why it sort of looks like the one from House Royce which means ‘moon’.

She purses her lips and keeps muttering as she continues reading. 

The rest of the table leaves one by one, even Sansa retires for the night. By the time Shireen slams her fist on the table, finally finding what it is she’s looking for, only Jojen remains, dozing off.

“I think I’ve got it.”

“Whassitsay?” Jojen mumbles. 

Shireen runs her finger along the runes carved into the wooden harp. 

“To call down the dawn.”

Jojen blinks, brain registering her words. He leans over her to look at them too. 

“Can you play the harp?”

Shireen bites her lip. 

“Only a little bit. I think Sansa can though.”

She hopes. 

**Winterfell**

The battle does not go like they planned. 

Before the Night King’s forces had piled upon Winterfell all at once, one after another. It had been an onslaught. 

The time, it seemed almost like a slow siege. The dead do not rush the keep all at once, rather they stumble and push through the trenches a few at a time, piling atop the corpses to bypass what they can, their undead steeds lumbering. 

They get close enough to shoot, they shoot, and they fall. But they keep coming. 

Arya shoots arrows until her arm goes stiff and her shoulder numb, well into the darkness of the winter night. At some point, on the first night, one of the girl squires pulls her down and tells her to sleep. When she wakes, she retakes her spot and resumes firing. After the first night, Gendry or Brienne sometimes, will make rounds reminding everyone to rest. Arya resists the urge to let him drag her down with the others. She’ll rest where she fights. 

These glimpses are all she’s seen of him. She hasn’t seen any of the others since the first wight appeared. 

Only a few arrows from the Others have made their way over the edge. Beside Arya, Ygritte took one to her bow arm, screeching in pain when the bit of ice punctured above her elbow. But after a minutes wimpering, she had pulled it out, bandaged it roughly, picked up her bow and kept going. 

The walls have not been breached. On the ground, the others are falling, but they keep on coming, and within Winterfell, the fighters continue to tire.

All throughout the keep, squires keep it running. “Squires” being the youngest fighters, including Rickon, who fetch arrows and run rations, the bits of meat and grain that can still be prepared. They switch out for fighters, so that they may rest, they carry bandages and other supplies, empty buckets, and carry messages. 

The days have piled on. It’s been more than a fortnight. 

At the hunter’s gate, Brienne finds it strange how easily some of them have adjusted. She has heard stories from men who have been through sieges. She knew men who had survived the siege of Storm’s End, and that had gone on more than a year. She remembers the look on their faces as they spoke of the impending starvation, that would have come for them if Ser Davos’s ship had not broken the barricade to smuggle in goods. She holds up best she can, though she still finds herself questioning the reality of the situation, of the rising dead. She wonders if Winterfell can stand. 

Leading the men guarding the north gate, Ned finds he can barely sleep at all, and simply forces himself to nod off in the saddle instead of retiring. Robb and his other men urge him to stop, to rest properly, but he finds himself unwilling to leave his men. 

He’s never known a fight like this. Slow and steady and without any sort of strategy to outsmart. Just a pure, unadulterated, onslaught of an enemy that did not slow or tire, or feel pain. Normally, a siege could be held off just because both sides needed to eat and sleep. And the others-

The Others, the creatures are just as they were from Old Nan’s stories. Ice of skin, blue of eye, carrying weapons of ice atop their undead mounts. Ned would be terrified if he stopped to think. 

He’s not sure how many days have gone by, when there’s a yell from a guard that some of them have managed to breach the east gate. 

His heart pounding in his ears, Ned turns and orders several men to ride and hold the gate. 

It’s not the bars that have been broken through, but one of the low parapets has been climbed by a pile of dead men. The archer who had been guarding it had taken an arrow of ice to the neck. The corpse still lay on the inside of the wall where he had fallen, where a squire was running for a torch to burn it as quickly as possible. 

Ned calls out to one of the lookouts. 

“How many outside the gate?”

The voice calls back, 

“Only a few more!”

Ned nods to one of his men. 

“Let a few of us through, close it behind us, don’t open it again until I say.”

He then summons a man with a torch and one of the precious pots of oil. He doesn’t want to call for Rowan unless he has too, even though her powers have helped clear so many of the fallen outside the walls.

Robb is at his side when they exit Winterfell for the first time in weeks. The snow is solid white, the closest thing to light that doesn’t come from the torches or the line of fire. That might end up a problem, the darkness of the sky ruining visibility and impairing the archers, Ned muses. 

Outside the walls it’s eerily quiet. Robb lunges forward at the first wight he sees at the wall, skewering it with Longclaw. Watching it collapse and cease movement is satisfying, but there are still so many more. 

The pile has just been toppled, and set fire to, when Ned feels a sharp pain in his shoulder. Robb yells, and Ned twists, throwing the Other from his steed. The spear of ice breaks, and he can move more easily, yelling for the others to regroup and get back inside. 

They do, and inside, the wights who have made it over are being burned. 

Ned is consumed by the image of Winterfell burning. The snow will only do so much. He is then consumed by the pain in his back and chest. He slumps forward and nearly slides from his horse as his vision threatens to go black.

The only thing he is aware of is someone taller than him gripping the arm on his uninjured side, throwing it over their shoulder and pulling him along the ground. 

“Hang in there, Lord Stark,” a voice, that Ned only dimly realizes is Gendry, “I’ll get you to Maester Luwin.”

The preparation of the Great Hall had been the last great task. Maester Luwin had said it was the only area that could be both cleared out enough to make room for the injured and properly fortified. 

Gendry had been making rounds each day to each post, hammer in hand. It wasn’t too much use in a fight against a wight, but it would be grand for clearing a path among them. Each day, he has dragged from the posts, the injured, the ill, and those who refuse to rest at their posts. 

That’s most of the fighters Gendry has brought Maester Luwin in the past weeks, men who are so exhausted they can barely stand. 

Ned barely has time to object before the elderly man guides him by hand to a straw mat on the floor, and holds a cup to his lips saying “drink”. 

The world goes fuzzy after that. 

When Ned wakes, he wakes to the sound of groaning, that he dimly realizes is his own voice. Maester Luwin is soon by his side, with a cup of water. 

“I got the broken bit of the weapon out,” he starts, his voice strange, “Oddest thing I’ve ever seen, it was like it crumbled in my hands. I patched up the wound best I could, and you should be moving around in a few days.”

Ned sighs, the movement making the wound burn. 

“Everything will still be going here in a few days won’t it?”

Luwin nods gravely, his elderly face somehow still looking more battle worn. 

“I’ve had a few pass away, but not from wounds. A couple from fevers, and the others from dehydration. It may not be the dead who truly break the walls down.”

Ned sees that he will not speak of the ones who have died outside this hall, who had to be burned immediately.

How long, Ned wonders, how long could this go on? It’s been weeks, could it stretch into whole turns of the moon? Multiple even? He glances around at the soldiers of the north, whatever they had been before, laying around him, bruised and battered, or merely exhausted. He wonders if he will even recognize his home afterwards. 

All Ned can do now is trust in his men, and rest. 

Gendry continues to make his rounds, passing messages and order as needed as well. He ends each round in the Godswood. 

Jon’s face is streaked with sweat, fresh and dried both. He passes messages constantly, trying to provide whatever reconnaissance the weirwoods can. He sees surges in numbers, he sees what direction they come from, he sees when the wolves tire. He wishes the sky would clear up, even a little bit. A few hundred yards of visibility would do wonders.

He saw the other day that one of the wolves had begun to eat one of the dead, and has no idea what will come of that. 

This time, he’s speaking to the tree, trying to see the whole picture. 

“Will they get past us?” he asks, before the image appears in his head, as though an illustration on a map. The dead pile up along the northern line, but though thousands are seeming to fall, a few begin to push the line, to stretch it, to sneak past the keeps and flee further south. 

In a moment of desperation, Jon pleas. He hopes that the trees understand. 

“Help us,” he pleas with them, “Help slow them down.”

He feels the shape of a tree stretching, standing tall, proud, and feels a sensation of assent. 

And then Jon snaps back to Winterfell, just as the ground begins to shake. 

An image enters Jon’s head. The image of the roots of the weirwood far north, how far they reached, even in a dead tree watched over by an illusion. 

And then the image changes, it’s of those same roots, reaching, stretching. Digging, twisting, breaking through the earth and rock like a knife through butter. 

Jon is grateful he is sitting down. Beside him, even Rowan looks alarmed. Once the shaking ceases, she stumbles to her feet. 

“We should make the rounds of the castle,” she starts. Rowan has left the Godswood a number of times, providing fire to those fighting, but every time fearing that she might be crushed under the press of falling bodies “Whatever it was that the trees did for us might change the landscape of the fight, and the walk will keep our blood from thickening.”

Jon follows her, eager to see the others again. 

No one in the keep notices the figure flying south, rapidly, in the sky. 

**Riverrun**

Stepping into the Riverlands had been like stepping back in time, to Catelyn’s childhood. Splitting from Davos had been hard enough, the older man having clasped her hands like her own father would have, and reminded her to find peace. 

Seeing her brother and uncle again, was like stepping back in time.

Seeing her father again, so frail and ill, did nothing to make her feel any more grown. 

But even in the Riverlands milder winter, where the snow could almost seem beautiful, Catelyn could not forget the knowledge of what she was leaving behind. The other refugees and household members of Winterfell who have accompanied her speak only in whispers, both of disbelief, and fear that speaking too loudly will bring down the dead upon the south. Many of them may not ever been the same.

Much of her days, she sits with her father, who is drifting in and out of lucidity, as hard as it is to watch. Sometimes he talks as though the Rebellion never happened, and Catelyn only occasionally wishes she could join him. 

She does her best to help Edmure, who is oscillating between proud and terrified about the rule of Riverrrun soon being his. He still expresses no interest in marrying anyone in particular. She will have to remind him the importance of having a Lady to rule with. 

One morning, she receives a raven. It’s one of many that come to the keep, but the only one addressed to her in particular. 

She smiles sadly upon reading it.

“It seems another of my children has been wed,” she tells Edmure, her voice soft. 

Her brother raises an eyebrow,

“How many are left? Just one.”

“Two,” she says, thinking that maybe she should add Edmure to that list. 

She tells the story to her father later, when she’s sitting with him. He’s pleased to hear, but from his response, she wonders if he thinks she’s talking about Lysa. 

Lysa is still a sore point, one that Catelyn avoids. 

Ravens keep flying after that. Brynden brings up repeatedly, the sightings that the smallfolk have had of a dragon flying north. Catelyn supports his position that it shouldn’t be ignored, but she doesn’t have a good handle on what would be safe, or wise, to tell them. 

Then the letter addressing them directly comes. 

Catelyn pours over it the same as the other Tullys. None of her children spoke extensively of this Daenerys Targaryen, mother of dragons. She doesn’t think they were very sure of themselves on the subject.

But she speaks of the same abominations rampaging through the north. That, she recognizes the fear of, from the shadows in her children’s eyes. 

One night over supper, Brynden catches her eye. 

“Do you believe any of this?”

Catelyn meets his eye, and nods. 

“I cannot tell true why I do, not sure you would believe me if I did, but in my heart, I feel following this Dragon Queen’s plea is the right thing for the realm.”

Brynden nods. 

“You should stay here with Edmure and your father. They will need someone to guide them.

Family, duty, honor, after all. 

Brynden leaves Riverrun, and Catelyn feels even more alone.

The weeks turn into months. Hoster Tully gets weaker and weaker.

The night that her father passes away, Catelyn has a dream. 

It’s not that she never dreams, but they are rarely this vivid. In it, she sees Robb die in front of her, and ghost images of her other children drifting farther and farther away. She calls out to them, but her throat has been cut. Her voice cannot escape. 

She wakes up in a cold sweat.


	31. Chapter 31

**Winterfell**

Everyone was beyond exhausted. Bags under the eyes, sluggish movements and dim conversation had become the norm. 

Then the mammoth showed up. It’s stride barely even notices the trench, now widened the earth shaking. 

The Free Folk all hope that the Night King did not count any of the giants among his soldiers.

Ygritte’s arm shakes as she looses arrow after arrow trying to fell the beast. All the others in line do the same. The arm she took the arrow in has begun to feel warm, but she does not fear corruption so much as reopening the wound. 

It’s just as the beast over the castle walls has been hit enough to stumble, that Rowan comes behind the archers to warn of an impending call to the trees, so that they could kneel and brace themselves. 

The first time they had had an archer fall clear over the ramparts, his neck broken. He’d risen far too quickly, and they’d been forced to burn him. Remembering it made the hair on the back of Ygritte’s neck stand up. They still hadn’t seen any sign of the Night King. 

Close to the pull of sleep, Arya had told her once about it before, muttering with her eyes half closed about how she had stabbed him with her little dagger and he had shattered as if made of glass.

This time, Arya is woken from sleep by the shaking of the earth. She sputters a bit before turning to Ygritte. 

“Do they need me back?”

Ygritte shakes her head. Better to let her sleep. Arya was a damn good archer, but there wasn’t much that could be done until the snow let up and the visibility improved. 

Other than trying to keep them from climbing the walls. 

In the Great Hall, Ned’s shoulder still burned, even as he left his cot. He went against Maester Luwin’s advice the minute he’d heard. 

The Hunter’s gate was overrun. Val and the other Free Folk were cutting down all they could see, slashing and cutting down the wights left and right.

“Best we’re trying is to let the bodies pile up and block the opening,” she tells him, hacking at a wight dragging along the ground with her dragon glass axe. “And once they do, we’ll set fire to the lot.”

The plan works, to Ned’s shock. Once the fire is burning and the pile stops twitching, several of the largest of the Free Folk make to block the broken gate with empty wagons full of whatever they can find to weigh them down. 

But while they are doing this, a cluster of wights have made their way inside the keep. 

The one Ned sees used to be a woman, he thinks. She lumbers, jumping on a young squire from behind, before one of the other squires slices her skull from the rest of her, and scooping her remains into the fire. 

With a start, Ned realizes the fighter carrying the dismembered wight is Rickon. His youngest son is now a figured smeared in dirt and blood, his hair slicked with sweat and snow.

Ned spins, following the sounds of the screams, the clang of steel, waiting to find a target he could direct them to. Eventually, a scream he recognizes pierces through.

He follows as fast as he can, finding Robb on the ground, a wight’s teeth sunk into one arm, his other flailing, trying to reach his sword where it had fallen. His arm is already beginning to take on an icy hue.

Ned’s muscles snap as he springs as fast as he can. But his movement isn’t necessary, as the wight is seized by one of the Free Folk and pulled away. But even as the threat is gone, Ned sees Robb’s arm, torn to bits, with lines running down it glowing an eerie unworldly blue. 

The sight makes him freeze nearly, the sight of his first born child, the sounds of the battle rattling in the back of his head. His stillness is interrupted when Val comes to him, picks up the sword from the cobblestones and in a single quick movement, with barely a grunt of effort and a sickening crack, severs Robb’s arm at the shoulder. 

His screams ring out through Winterfell.

“Give me your torch,” she tells one of the Free Folk, and Ned watches as she holds the fire to the wound until it seals and the smell of perverse cooked meat fills the air.

“Help me get him to the Great Hall,” she orders, and though Ned moves to help, he realizes Val’s words were directed at Gendry off beside him, who takes the fallen torch in one hand, and carefully lift’s Robb’s uninjured arm over his shoulder. 

Once they are out of sight, that part of the keep is once again quiet of screams, at least for this moment. Ned’s shoulder burns worse than before. 

Ned is later glad that he isn’t on the east side when it happens. 

Brienne watches later as Gendry pulls two soldiers onto the back of his horse. 

“The same fever?” she asks him. An illness of some sort had been passing through those stationed on the east side. With no time for proper food or rest, those who caught it had been dropping like flies. Brienne feared it wouldn’t be too long before it spread to other parts of the keep. 

Gendry nods. 

“Luwin’s having me quarantine them in one hallway outside the Great Hall. He fears them infecting the injured.”

He doesn’t tell her about the one he’d left a few days ago who had had a violent seizure when he’d come to check on them, his limbs shaking and mumbling fever dreams.

He nods to Brienne before turning to leave with the ill men.

Brienne surveys the meager forces manning the east wall again, as if by going through them again, they might suddenly grow, might suddenly be less haggard and starved.

As if they somehow might stand a chance. 

As Brienne dismounts to go and check the archers on this side of the wall, the ground shakes, but not like before. Not like what the trees did. 

And she hears the telltale sounds of stone beginning to crumble. The tiny chinks that have built up as the dead continued to slam and pile up against it, until parts of the east wall begin to crack and fall.

In the Godswood, Jon wakes with a start, to find Rowan shaking him. 

“Your glove began to peel off,” she tells him, and he rights it. “You must be careful of frostbite.”

Yes, Jon thinks, frostbite. 

Even trying to reclaim his tiny bits of sleep, he reaches out to the outside. He sees the second mammoth, the one who rammed the east wall and caused it to begin to crumble, and his eyes snap awake. 

The trees don’t know too much of what to make of the Night King, other than he is heading south, fast, far too fast. Jon thanks all the gods that he seems to be limited by normal means of transportation.

The trees speak again to Jon now, unbidden. They say they will help again, but he does not understand their words this time. He feels the touch they would give to him, the assurance. That what they are about to do will take a lot out of him, and that he should brace himself, but not just physically. 

Stumbling wildly out of the visions, Jon backs himself to the trunk of the weirwood, and lowers himself to the ground. Rowan presses closer to his side, and with his eyes trailing shut once again, Jon wishes Ygritte could be here with him too. 

When the images pass through his mind, images of another him and another battle, he just lets it slip through him. 

**Greywater Watch**

Sansa and Shireen pour over the harp for days that turn into weeks that turn into months. 

“I learned to play in King’s Landing,” Sansa muses, “From Leonette Fossoway. But I was so anxious and frightened all the time, I’m afraid I was quite a poor student.”

“I learned a bit in lessons as a girl,” Shireen adds, “But not too much. I wanted to learn the lute instead.”

And a frozen bog in hiding from the rising dead isn’t quite the best place to try and relearn, but they do what they can. 

“Great-grandfather’s fiddle’s around here somewhere,” Meera tells Jojen one afternoon when the soft pings of the plucked strings are ringing out again. 

“Waiting for a Reed who’s not an embarrassment to the art of music,” Jojen agrees. 

At that moment, the scene is interrupted by Bran sticking his head in from outside and calling out to Sansa. He’s holding a rolled up scroll from the leg of a bird, so Meera and Jojen both follow Sansa to find out what’s going on. 

Shireen looks around the table and realizes she’s alone again. Oh well, it never lasts long, there’s not too many places to hide in a keep this size. 

It doesn’t even last five minutes, as Lord Reed re-enters from the back end and sits on the opposite side of the table from her. 

Shireen nods, and greets him. She never learned too much about House Reed, aside from its allegiance to the north, but they’ve been good enough hosts. 

There’s a long bit of silence, when he asks. 

“You’re an only child aren’t you Shireen?”

Shireen nods. She remembers having always wanted siblings, but thinking on her parents as nearly an adult, she suspects it might be better that she didn’t. 

“I heard about your father at the Wall. I’m sorry.”

Shireen nods again. She’s tried so hard not to think about it. 

“With him gone, I guess I should go home to Dragonstone after this. I don’t know if my mother- I should probably just try and do my duty.”

Howland studies her. His gaze isn’t penetrating, but she still feels exposed. 

“Is that what you want though?”

She smiles softly. 

“I don’t want my house to die out, though I did think I would have a little more time...When I was little, I used to listen to Maester Cressen talk about his training, and I wished I could go to the citadel. I know they don’t let women in, but I always thought maybe I could sneak in at night, or something of the sort. I do at least have a huge stack of writings that I might be able to convince them to be worth reading now.”

Howland’s face has turned serious, and Shireen wonders what it was she’d said. The others have returned from whatever was being carried on the raven, but are on the other side of the room. He watches as Shireen tries to catch Jojen’s eye, hoping for a hint of if the letter was important.

“Are the two of you close?”

Shireen’s face turns pink. 

“We’ve found some...very unusual common ground.”

Howland puts his face in his hands. His voice softens so the others don’t over hear, but is unexpectedly rough, 

“When this is over, and you leave this place...convince him to go with you, in whatever capacity that is.”

Shireen blinks in shock. 

“Don’t you want him home, safe?”

“Of course I do. But I don’t think he will be safe if he’s home. It’s not so bad here in the winter, but come spring...this environment is harsh. Illnesses spread through us like wildfire. In the spring the swamp gas rises. Jojen’s already fallen to Greywater fever once. I don’t worry about Meera, she’s strong-”

Shireen chuckles. A few days prior, Meera had climbed part way onto the roof of the keep to free Una when she had become entangled in a snare, with very little regard to her rapidly swelling abdomen. 

“But Jojen never has been. He was always a fragile boy. And even though his mother and I always told him how important his visions were...we all knew that this was not a good place for him. I don’t want him to leave home and die like last time, but I want him to die earlier than he needs to even less.”

Shireen watches the others, solemn. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The moons go on, and Sansa and her can’t make heads or tails of the harp. Once, when Sansa plays, Shireen notes that one of the runes on the side seems to light up, but despite her scribbling it down as fast as she can, they have yet to get that reaction from any of the other runes. 

One morning, one the Reed’s lookouts come to report that men have been spotted marching along the causeway from the south. 

“What? What banners are they carrying?” Sansa demands. 

The lookout couldn’t see them in the snow, so Bran sends Una south. 

When she reaches the men, Bran reports. 

“House Tyrell, but they aren’t displaying their banners, I could only tell by their armor. And they’re being led by Jamie Lannister.”

The distaste in his voice is prominent. 

“Should we tell the men to try and stop them from getting through?” Meera asks. 

There’s a long pause. 

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Bran says slowly. “They’re not traveling under the banner of the crown. We should at least see what happens if they make it through and encounter the Others.”

There are nods all around. Bran spends the next weeks in and out of Una trying to discover why a company of soldiers, but not from King’s Landing, would be coming north. 

One night when he had left her and nearly immediately fallen asleep, he dreams of the Night King coming for him in the Godswood. It wakes him in a cold sweat. 

He’s just managed to calm his heart, when he realizes Meera’s sitting up on her side of the bed, hunched over. 

“Hey-” he reaches out to touch her on the shoulder. “Is it the babe, should we call for the midwife?”

She shakes her head, and Bran sighs in relief. She should have at least a moon’s turn left. 

“It was back before, when I left Winterfell,” her voice shakes. “It was snowing so hard, and I could barely sleep. I hadn’t slept alone, or been alone at all really, in so long…”

He rubs his hand along her shoulder and reaches for his cane beside the bed. 

“Come on, lets get some tea.”

But when they reach the table, they aren’t alone. 

Shireen’s muttering about fire, and Sansa says something about the crypts. But it’s not just them, but others within the keep, awake and speaking quietly. 

Jojen is the last to join them, looking confused at everyone else. 

When he sits, his only words are. 

“That was a green dream. But I’ve never had one like that before.”

“Doesn’t make sense,” Sansa responds, “The things we saw really happened.”

There’s a long silence, interrupted only by the rustling of the others waking. 

“But only you lot remember that these things happened,” Shireen says slowly, “The rest of us see this as new.”

They sit in silence again as this washes over them. 

**White Harbour**

At White Harbour, Theon sits up with a jolt. They’re still on the ship, surveying before they disembark. 

In the dark, he gropes his way out of the cabin before finding Yara on watch. Her eyes meet his, and her terror he feels must be mirrored on his own. 

Yara stares at him steadily, before looking back out to the land in front of them. 

“We do not sow. Remember our house words. We are here, we are Ironborn. We will not go down with the dead.”

Her words are enough, at least safely at sea. 

Gliding on the air above them all, Danaerys jumps when her vision shifts, finding herself aboard Rhaegal again instead of Drogon like she had in the vision, and wonders at what could have made that seemingly small thing different. Much moreso, she is confused by the memory of her own feelings, her nearly arrogant certainty. She steels herself in the darkness, running a hand along Rhaegal’s scales. It would be wrong to admit she has no such certainty now. 

**The Kingsroad **

Jamie’s arm is too light. This is the first thing that registers when he wakes. His arm is too light and it seems to flop around of its own accord. 

But it’s not just his arm weighing him down, but the memory of Cersei’s betrayal. 

She had begged him to find a way to stop Father sending her back to Casterly Rock, and he’d been plagued by guilt over it. Now he questions why. His whole life he’d tried to spend in her service, and what did he get in return for it? Now with this memory, though hazy and rapidly fading, his guilt begins to lighten. 

When the first light comes, he orders the men on. His guilt does begin to rise, when he recalls what he suspects they will find at the end of the Kingsroad. 

**King’s Landing**

Margaery had found the necklace among her things ages ago, and she had also noticed the stone that came loose. She had kept it in her personal effects, close, planning to bide her time. 

In the moons since she had sent Jamie away, Joffrey had become increasingly paranoid. Rambling on during council meetings about the rumors and correspondences with the Targaryen girl, even lashing out after being reprimanded by his Hand, his own grandfather.

She spends several days observing routines, finding the best time. Night time would be too obvious, too many servants who might take the blame. 

The visions that pass over them all don’t even seem to phase Joffrey at all, to Margaery’s disgust. Breakfast provides the perfect distraction. Especially since breakfast today is fried fish, complete with their tiny bones. 

Especially since it seems everyone else in the keep awoke in the same fugue state Margaery found herself in. Her maid had looked at her as though she had seen a ghost. She fingers the jewel tucked into her pocket. Her dream did nothing but spur her on. 

In the Great Hall, everyone has gathered among the breakfast spread, no one much meeting others eyes and bumbling about, confused. Only Joffrey is already eating, licking the greasy batter of the fried fish from his fingers.

The jewel dropped its way easily into the goblet of red wine. She hasn’t even have the opportunity to sit down before Joffrey’s hand snatches it away. 

“Far too early for a queen. Wouldn’t want you ending up like my dearest mother.”

Margaery lets him take the goblet and place it to his lips. And she waits. 

**Winterfell**

Ned’s shoulder burns anew when he wakes. At least he knows he’s alive.

Robb jerks awake on the cot in the Great Hall. Only an arm, at least there’s that. 

Gendry doesn’t even quit moving as he drags a man with a broken leg from the rubble of the east wall. 

Brienne grips her sword tighter, the word ‘knight’ echoing in her mind. 

Up on the ramparts, Arya stares straight ahead. She squeezes the dagger at her waist, and dares the Night King to come this time. 

Beside her, Ygritte rolls on her side and mutters, “Gods, I hope someone killed that fuckin’ kid.”

In the Broken Tower, Benjen stares across the horizon, looking for the figure he imagines must still be coming for him.

In the Godswood, Jon touches his stomach and chest where the stab wounds had been, takes a deep breath, and tells the trees thank you. 

“Do you think this will help?” he asks them, the tongue feeling more natural on voice now somehow. 

“Unknown. But we’ve done what we can.”

Jon hopes that it’s enough.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW in the first section for graphic descriptions of self-harm/suicide

**Casterly Rock**

Valonqar, that was the word sticking in Cersei’s throat. 

While the other denizens of Casterly Rock mill about, confused about whatever sorcery had come over them 

All she could think of was the spectre of Maggy’s sick, yellow eyes, and that single word, valonqar. 

She stares in the mirror to the words “shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you” echoing through her head. 

She still can’t reason how she allowed herself to end up back here, put here by her own father. Her only daughter, stolen away from her to Dorne, her sons still in King’s Landing, under the thumb of that Tyrell harlot. 

She had long thought that the valonqar, the little brother, would be her own. She’d always known Tyrion to be a vile, spiteful beast. His recent absence from King’s Landing only confirmed her suspicions.

And Jamie, who always swore he would be there for her was gone. He had not followed her back to the Westerlands, instead insisting that it was his duty to continue guarding the king. 

He had abandoned her, she would just have to accept that. 

She can’t get the words out of her head, golden crowns and golden shrouds. Falling and choking and poison, purple and red and red and gold. 

Her fingernails scratch at her throat. Her golden crown had been stolen, and she will claim her golden shroud before she could be forced to watch the others. 

Her fingers don’t do the trick, not sharp enough, not strong enough. She becomes faint but does not fall. She looks in front. The mirror.

She wonders for a moment if the glass breaking will attract people, who might presume to come to her air. But no, she suspects they are all caught up in their own petty little thoughts. 

The glass is good, sharp and quick. The blood flows thick, and Cersei laughs. Lannister red, spilling from her throat. No golden shrouds for her. 

As the world begins to dim, she continues to laugh. The sounds of a door opening, and a scream scarcely make themselves known behind her, and her laughter rises and peaks as the blood drips down her neckline, staining her gown.

**Greywater Watch**

Shireen comes into the hall and sits down roughly at the table next to Sansa. 

“Childbirth is terrifying, and I’m never doing it.”

Sansa snorts quietly, eyes remaining trained on the harp standing before her. 

“Good luck with that.”

After a moment, Sansa looks back up. 

“How is she?”

“Exhausted. The midwife warned her about how long first time births can take.”

Sansa remembers hearing Catelyn’s stories, that she’d been in labor with Robb for nearly two days before he’d come, and after that, all of the others had seemed to take no time at all. 

Meera had called for the midwife the day before, but stayed on her feet as long as she could stand. But even the strongest of them has a breaking point. 

Bran had fallen asleep, still letting her cling to his arm. 

“She’s seen me at far worse than this,” he had insisted, “I have no excuse to leave her side.”

The midwife had nodded approvingly. Men often had excuses to leave their wives sides during birth, from the more infuriatingly expected; insisting that it just wasn’t done, to the more understandable; that they dreaded seeing them in pain. 

The rest of the small keep were trying to go about their daily work. The sky remains dark gray, even on the days no snow falls, even on the rare days with no fog over the water. 

Inside, at the table, Sansa and Shireen keep at the harp. 

They’ve managed to get four of the five runes to dimly light up, but never at once, and it really grinds on Shireen that she can’t figure out how to trigger the sequence of notes. 

They’ve been going at it every day at least, and they still have made so little progress. 

After staring at it for a long time, Shireen finally mutters to Sansa. 

“Maybe we have this wrong.”

Sansa looks at her, confused. Shireen fingers the strings of the harp. 

“These runes were of the First Men...but how do we know they were the ones who would have played it?”

Sansa furrows her brow. 

“Who else would have?”

“Well, when the First Men came to Westeros, they didn’t find it empty. They fought with the giants and the children of the forest.”

Sansa thinks, and studies the instrument in front of them. 

“It does…seem rather small for a harp. I never had to stretch as much as Leonette did because I’m so tall, but I’ve never had to hunch either…”

Her fingers linger along the strings, which are spaced a bit more closely than she would expect. Both of them were rather novice players, she muses ruefully, a seasoned one might have noticed more quickly. 

There’s an idea blooming in Shireen’s mind, but it’s formation is interrupted when the midwife emerges to tell them that mother and child are both doing fine and resting, if not quite comfortably. 

“It’s a good thing you regained the use of one of your legs,” Meera whispers sleepily, “Because I’m not going to be doing anything until mine stop being jelly.”

Bran chuckles, and they both stare quietly down at the blanket wrapped bundle on her chest. 

“I never thought I would get to have any of this,” Bran admits, softly, “One of the first things I remember after waking up after my fall was everyone going on about how I would never marry or have a family...like that meant much to a ten year old. I was so much more worried about never riding a horse or swinging a sword again.”

Meera laughs in response. She rests her head on his shoulder and then her voice quiets. 

“I would have married you then. We would have had children, if it were still possible for you, you never really talked about that-”

Bran still finds himself a little red. 

“It seemed to work like I’d always heard it would, but I wasn’t exactly whipping it out and comparing notes with other men.”

They both laugh before Meera continues.

“If you had given me so much of a glimmer of hope that you still felt...When you stared at me with those empty eyes...that was the only time I ever really thought you were broken.”

Bran shifts to push her sweaty curls back off her forehead and assure her she never has to worry about that again, but she’s already fast asleep, snoring lightly.

He pushes her off his shoulder back onto the pillow and carefully lifts the bundle from her chest. 

“We still haven’t come up with a name for you,” he admits to his daughter, “But I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

In the morning, once all three of them have had a chance to rest, the rest of the keep file in a few at a time. 

The look on Howland’s face is one of wonder as he cradles the tiny person and he has to be goaded to pass her to his wife. 

“I never admitted before, how much it frightened me, how close our house got to dying out…”

Jyana interrupts, knowing how petty the concern feels now. 

“Have you thought of a name yet?”

Bran and Meera look at each other.

“We’ve got a few ideas, but nothing that seems..right.”

Shireen, who has been hovering behind, trying not to call attention, makes a comment. 

“Gilly told me the Free Folk don’t usually name their children until they’re older.”

Bran smiles. 

“While it would be nice to have some extra time, I don’t think I can get used to just calling her ‘baby’”. 

But at that moment, the as of yet unnamed baby chooses to wake and fuss, and so the crowd leaves them be. 

Later, when Meera has been coaxed onto her feet and out of bed, they join the others out at the table, dragging the cradle out behind them. It looks more like a basket than a cradle, woven from dried grasses and weeds by Jyana and the other women in the keep, with Sansa and Shireen looking on curiously.

Shireen is twisting and tying together several bits of the left over dried ferns

“What are you working on?”

Shireen frowns, looking at the bundle, before answering. 

“About how big do you remember Rowan’s hands being?”

Bran pinches his mouth together in thought. 

“Is that what you’re trying to make?”

Shireen nods. She gestures over her shoulder to where Sansa’s scribbling furiously. 

“Between the two of us, the best guess we had is this harp was meant to be played by one of the Children of the forest, and they have much smaller hands than us.”

Meera leans over and plucks one of the strings. 

“This seems kind of big for one of them, even if it’s small for a harp…”

Shireen has another epiphany. She waves Sansa over to her side. 

“We should try playing it at the same time. Meera’s right, this is too big for one Child to play by itself.”

It takes practice to learn to keep rhythm with each other, to get used to each other’s presence and movements, but it comes. By suppertime, when Howland comes in from his solar, and Jojen and Jyana come in from shoveling the duck coop and the canoe launch of snow, it’s happening. 

“There it is!” Shireen announces excitedly, “The last rune!”

And with that last one revealed, it doesn’t take long. The twang and twinkle of the music being played echo throughout Greywater Watch, attracting the notice of nearly everyone. 

Shireen could feel the vibrations through her skin down to her bones. The music warms her in a way she hasn’t felt since long before winter. It spreads from her fingers to every part of her. She’s warm and alight when she realizes all eyes are on them. 

Jojen makes a quiet noise among the notes, and points to the side of the harp. Shireen does her best not to break the rhythm when she leans to the side to see what she hopes: all five runes carved into the side, all lit up at once. 

She nods to Sansa, and they keep it up as long as they can. 

Beside the table, the as of yet unnamed child in her cradle gurgles. When her father moves to soothe her, he catches sight of something he hasn’t seen in too long. 

“The fog’s breaking-” Bran interrupts the music, “The sun’s come out!”

The sun breaks through the clouds and fog, bathing the swamplands in light.

Shireen keeps playing, one eye trained out the windows. 

**Winterfell**

Gendry’s toes are poking through his boots.

It seems an odd thing to focus on, but it’s where his mind is. They’re all ragged, they’ve been fighting too long. Cloth is worn through, gloves torn ragged, soles flop off boots, revealing stocking and skin both. The snow still falls outside and soon the frost will begin to get to them. The wights, the fever, the cold, the frost. 

This is where his mind is when he hears the words that the Night King has been spotted. It was Nymeria, of course, and her mistress passed the word. They know he’s coming, even though they can barely see in front of their own faces. The snow hasn’t stopped falling for three weeks. But what is snow to a direwolf?

Well, finally. The plan, he assumes, is still in place. 

With his toes shivering in the cold, he goes to meet the others, at the base of the Broken Tower. 

The east wall has long since fallen, but the pile of rubble is high enough to slow the dead just enough. Some of the archers have left their posts on the other walls to help guard this one, when it risks being overrun.

When Gendry reaches the meeting point, Arya’s already there, pacing. 

“Father went up the steps, he said he had to say goodbye.”

She pulls away from Gendry’s touch. There’s not much he can do now. 

Eventually, Jon emerges from the Godswood, accompanied by Ygritte. He tosses Arya Dark Sister and she passes the dagger to Gendry, who holds it in one hand, the other resting on his warhammer. Ygritte nods to them, before leaving to join the other archers. 

Gendry looks at where Jon is holding Longclaw. 

“Robb gave it back?”

“Not much else he could do. He could swing an axe now, but he doesn’t have the reflexes yet, or the time to learn.”

Gendry sighs. He imagines what Robb must be thinking, stuck among the sick in the Great Hall while his men, and his wife, continue to fight outside without him. 

The three of them stand, and wait. It’s all they can do. Ned eventually emerges, his face in his hands. 

“Father you should go,” Arya tells him, her voice short, “You’re still injured.”

Ned shakes his head, and rests his hand on Ice’s hilt. 

“I will not stand by the fight for my home and my blood, injured or no, especially as the four of us are the only ones wielding Valyrian steel right now.”

His words are solemn, suited to the situation. 

Which makes the whole standing around the tower holding their weapons and waiting for the Night King to arrive seem all the more ridiculous. They have spread out enough that they can guard each side of the tower, but aren’t far enough apart for them to not be able to see each other. 

Around them, the fighting continues. Wights make their ways over the walls and are cut down by groups who run from one end to the other. They’ve lost too many archers to keep them from climbing the fallen wall. A pyre burns close by, and every body thrown onto it risks it spreading. Parts of the stables have already gone ablaze, along with several storage sheds. 

Arya wonders how long it will take to rebuild once everything is done. 

She slips into Nymeria’s head, just for a look, and the blue eyes pierce through her, through both sets of her eyes, blood freezing in her veins. . 

She breathes deeply in and out. Gendry is looking her in the eye from his side. 

“Almost?”

She nods. 

A walker appears from over the wall, it’s steed kicking off any who get near. 

The rider is taking aim with it’s ice sword, when a blow from Gendry’s war hammer renders the beast broken. Arya slices the animal’s head clean from it’s body and Jon dispatches the walker in the same manner. 

One down. Who knows how many to go. 

They wait. 

Arya cuts down one, Jon another. They don’t know how many there will be. The wights too, get close to them and get cut. 

Eventually, Arya’s eyes go white for a moment and Gendry knows what will happen. 

None of them see the Night King come over the downed wall. His horse is nowhere to be seen. They don’t know if he walks or climbs or crawls, or just sort of floats in that otherworldly manner. But the air somehow goes even colder, and they know he’s here. 

Gendry feels the air try to leave his lungs. He hadn’t been here at this point before, too busy in the chaos. The direction he’s coming from is at a corner to Gendry, so he takes the opportunity. 

The Night King stepped straight in front of Ned, so Gendry lunges forward and swings at him with his hammer. 

It practically slides off. With barely a glance, it’s as though the iron weighs nothing to him, and the force causes Gendry to land hard on the ground. Jon takes a swing too, also knocked off with the slightest movement of his hand. Gendry doesn’t see Arya attack, but she ends up on her back on the ground as well. 

She pulls herself up, spitting. Her face is scraped, but she’s moving. 

Arya turns to meet her father’s eye. 

“Plan B I guess. Get to a safe distance. We hope it works. “

In the last intact floor of the broken tower, Benjen counts his moments. He savours the last words he shared with his brother, with his nieces and nephews. The moments they were so careful to give him. They all took the perilous climb, among the loose stone and broken beams, to say their goodbyes. He can hear the shouting below, and he knows his time is coming. 

The level he is on is high enough to see over the walls of Winterfell, and he’s helpless to tell them that they’re still coming. That the Great Other may have come, but his followers are still behind him as well. He wishes it was higher, wonders how far his eyes could see if he was as high as the eyrie. 

Then the moment comes, and he hears the feet on the staircase leading up to where he is. It hadn’t been easy for him to climb this high, and Benjen hopes it will prove as treacherous for the Night King. The younger Starks had been correct that this was the best place for him to hide. The crate of dried meat is nearly empty now, that the weeks and moons have dragged on, and Benjen knows hunger will come for him, even if the Night King does not.

Though Benjen is no longer so sure of his own beliefs, as the steps get closer, he prays. He prays to all of the old gods, and all of the Seven. He even spares a word for the Red God Stannis had spoken of, just for completion, but the steps do not slow. 

A brick falls, a step. Another step. A beam cracks. Benjen entertains himself with an image of the Night King falling through the floor and shaking his fist. 

Another step. Benjen clutches the flint and steel close to the drum of wildfire. 

Another step. A thump. 

Benjen finds the skin creeping in fear, even with all of the time he’s had to resign himself to his probable fate. The younger had fought him, saying there had to be a way, but he knew the instant he knew they’d gotten over the wall. 

The Night King would come for him, and stare him in the eye.

He’s staring him in the eye now. 

His eyes are so blue, Benjen thinks, as he tries to strike the flint and steel. There are no sparks being produced, and he can’t tell why. He’s too entranced, too drawn by those blue eyes. The vat of wildfire is still not lighting. He steps closer. 

Down on the ground, Arya frowns at the top of the tower. 

“I think there’s something wrong,” she tells Gendry. 

The tower still stands, as it has. 

On the other side, Jon’s head jerks at a movement in the sky, coming through the clouds and the snow. 

When the scales and claws become more visible, Jon hears Ned beside him whisper a prayer. 

Benjen heard them too, up in the tower. The Night King’s fingers were nearly upon him. He didn’t know the sound of a dragon’s cry.

That day during the siege of Winterfell, the tower once burned by lightning, burned again, this time in dragon’s fire. 

And just before the conflagration begins, the sky opens and the sun begins to shine. Not too many of the fighters have the time to take notice.

The blast knocks everyone in range onto the ground, human and wight alike. Several of the wights do not get up, they are burned too quickly. So quickly have the army of Winterfell become used to disposing of the bodies. 

Gendry’s head had cracked against the ground. He sits up with a groan and waits for the world to stop spinning. Beside him, Arya jumps to attention, ignoring the buzzing in her ears. When Gendry stands, he stares for a moment at the blood leaking from her right ear. 

Arya doesn’t spare a word. She jumps up, grabs her sword, and leads Gendry to where the human shaped blur is falling from the burning tower. 

Jon and Ned are already in place, looking no worse for the wear. 

The movements come as if second nature, for all they had gone over them in hurried conversation between shifts. 

The ambulatory corpse lands with a thud, leaving a hole in the walk underneath. When it begins to move, a swing from Longclaw knocks him back, and another from Ice keeps him down. 

Gendry lunges forward with his hammer, using it to crush the pelvis and pin the Night King to the ground. Swifty, he trades Arya the dagger for Dark Sister. Arya climbs atop the pinned corpse, ignoring his ice blue eyes. Jon strikes one of his arms, and Ned the other. 

Arya plunges the dagger as deeply as she can, but this time she’s not aiming for the heart. She cuts with precision, but nods to Ned when she needs help breaking the ribs. 

His chest feels like pure ice, flowing through like human innards. But Arya is a child of the north and she can handle a little cold. Her fingers fight their way through the squelch and bone to find the sharp sliver of dragonglass. 

She grasps it, pulls it free, and throws it on the ground. With a single movement, Ned severs the Night King’s head, and Jon crushes it into dust. 

The Night King is no more. 

No one speaks at first, merely milling around. Around them, the other fighters are still moving. 

“The wights won’t fall yet,” Jon comments, “But there won’t be anymore.”

“How many more are there?” Gendry questions. He doesn’t expect an answer. They don’t know. 

Above them, the dragon swoops lower, and Ned stares in wonder. 

“We should try to communicate with her,” Jon comments, head nodding in Ned’s direction, and they move to climb the remaining ramparts and take account of the situation.

When he tries to walk, Gendry stumbles. His head spins anew now that his blood isn’t rushing as much. He leans hard on Arya’s shoulder, and she’s pressed back against him just as hard. He thinks he mutters some words he thinks are supposed to be encouraging. She hears little of it, the buzzing has not ceased. 

They reach part of the fallen east wall before collapsing. This is bad, Gendry thinks, they’re both clearly injured, they need to get to the Great Hall. Wights could find them at any moment, they don’t know if dozens, hundreds, even thousands remain. But they can’t move, it’s too cold now despite the sun. The quiet is too tempting. He throws an arm over Arya and tries so hard to feel her chest rising up and down. 

The last thing Gendry remembers before letting the quiet take him is the freezing air hitting his toes. Fuck those boots he thinks. As he drifts off, he thinks he feels warm fur brush against them, and something warm wrap around him and Arya’s bodies. He even thinks he feels a wet muzzle brush against his face. 

He supposes they’ll find out eventually, under the light of the sun this time.


	33. Chapter 33

**Dragonstone**

Tyrion knows it was wise for him to stay on Dragonstone with Varys when Daenerys flew north. That didn’t stop him from feeling like he was twiddling his thumbs the whole time. 

He passes the time listening for gossip. He hears of the tragic fall of the house of Arryn, now headed by a weak-willed lordling. He hears of his brother’s disappearance from King’s Landing, and with each day his hope is dashed that that meant he would come to follow him, He hears of his nephew, the increasingly unstable king. 

He, of course, has his part in what the maesters have discussed calling “the great visions” and he hears the smallfolk whispers of “winter madness”.

He almost dares not believe his vision. He dares not believe the image of himself, with a heavy beard, but the burden of many of his vices lifted. He almost dares not believe the pride in his chest, the memory of being trusted, and respected. 

And the memory of Sansa’s face, trusting and open. He had seen that face before, and he knew it to be real. 

The haze his mind is in in the days following is interrupted by the arrival of a single ship from the north. 

It should bring more panic, the sign of the Baratheon banners, returning home to their appropriated castle. But the handful of men just seem ecstatic to see other human beings. 

After a rushed conversation that tells that they have all been seized by these strange visions, the captain quickly asks to be lead to the castle. 

“It’s the Lady Baratheon. Since we were all overcome by this madness, she has twice attempted to take her own life. We need to keep her under constant supervision.”

Tyrion watches as the sailors off board, surrounding the thin, wane form of Selyse Baratheon. He would have barely recognized her as a person beforehand. He wonders what she saw. 

Over the next weeks, at loss for anything else to do, Tyrion sits with her, reading. She wakes, and seems to recognize him, but will usually just roll over and return to her fitful slumber. 

One morning, for some reason, when she rouses, she turns to him and speaks. 

“What did you see?”

Tyrion chuckles. Those may be the words spoken to nearly the whole of Westeros over the coming years. 

“A vision of a man others have told me I am but I can scarcely believe.”

Selyse chuckles mirthlessly, before rolling onto her back.

“I saw something that if asked before, I would have said it was a good thing,” Tyrion notes that she still does not say what it is, “But seeing it horrified me to the bone, and feeling that made me realize how incredibly wrong I had been about so very many things.”

Selyse returns to silence. When it breaks again, her words are gravelly. She’s not telling him exactly what she saw that day, but she is still saying so much.

“I haven’t seen my daughter in so long. I wonder if I would even recognize her.”

Tyrion thinks. 

“Last I heard she was when your husband went north to aid the Night’s Watch. She was under Lord Stark’s protection, her sworn shield by her side.”

There’s a decent chance Shireen could be fine, he thinks.

Selyse rolls away from his gaze. 

“Alive and well,” she whispers, “No thanks to me.”

Tyrion lets her stay with her thoughts after that. 

**The Kingsroad**

The guilt Jamie felt over leading his men north now befuddled him. They were soldiers after all, they should know that death is a possibility. 

If any of them were as taken by the visions as him, they should know what they might be facing. 

North of Moat Cailin, the ground is solid and wide. That’s where they are when the dead lunge for the men at the head of the company. 

As Jamie realizes they have no weapons effective against the dead, no Valyrian steel, no dragonglass, despair begins to set in. They build fires, but he doubts it will be enough. The ground is open on all sides, they could attack from any direction. And there are not enough of them to be sure none get past and go further south.

He doesn’t know how many days they’ve been fighting. Long enough that no one paid attention when the sky opened up. 

Everyone paid attention when the dragon swooped down from the heavens and burned a line along the countryside. 

Jamie can barely hear his own voice over the wind and screaming when calls out to the rider. 

“Our weapons won’t work on them!”

“Drive them into piles and ditches,” her voice calls out, “I’ll burn as many as I can!”

Jamie nods, and amidst the chaos, he lifts his sword and fights. 

**Winterfell**

Ned trusts Maester Luwin’s opinion, but he still can’t wrap his mind around the words. 

“Are you sure?”

The older man nods solemnly. 

“The bits of the broken sword are still inside your chest. As you continue to move, they will too, and I believe from the position, that they will eventually cause bleeding inside or damage to your lungs, and there will be nothing that can be done.”

“You can’t remove them?”

“Attempting to do that risks both the same things.”

Ned sighs, resting his head in his hands. Things have finally begun to slow. The sun has returned, the wounded are beginning to heal, the hungry to be fed. And this. 

“How long?”

Maester Luwin shakes his head. 

“No way to tell. It could be two days, or two moons, or two years. You don’t seem to be in pain now, which is encouraging.”

Ned’s eyes make their way over the rest of the Great Hall, the injured. It’s night now, and most are sleeping, or trying to. 

Robb has finally regained enough strength to leave and join the others in trying to plan strategy to take out the rest of the wights. He had been privy to part of the conversation between him and Val when he had finally come out of the haze. 

Robb had stared vacantly at the space where his arm had been for a good long while before breaking the silence. 

“You cut off my arm,” he tells her, voice disbelieving.

“If you had preferred I just slit your throat, let me know, I can still do it.”

“No,” Robb had told her softly, and his eyes were serene. The next time Val had come, she had motioned for him to stand and pushed an axe into his remaining hand.

Arya and Gendry had spent too many nights sleeping in here, trying to outrun the wounds they both refused to acknowledge. Luwin had had to take two of Gendry’s toes which had become frostbitten. Regaining his balance had taken time that the lad did not have patience for, eager to regain the others outside. 

As for Arya, she had woken fitfully the first several nights, complaining of the buzzing. Luwin had said the explosion had ruptured one of her eardrums, and that while the buzzing might fade, he doubted she would ever regain full hearing in that ear. 

But after several days, she had seemed to be able to fight through it, to force herself to ignore it. There were fewer archers needed, but more fires to put out, bodies to burn, debris to clear, rebuilding to begin. 

Even Ygritte had ended up down here, loathe to admit that ever since she had taken the arrow, she hadn’t been able to feel two of her fingers. Luwin had bowed his head when he told her it was likely permanent. She had rolled her eyes and muttered something about how at least it was only her bow arm and not her drawing arm. 

Ned watches one by one as his children leave the Great Hall and he remains. Ned had not seen any sign of Rickon.

Rickon was outside when Arya and Gendry woke and stepped outside the Great Hall. He doesn’t say a word, merely nods. He’s covered in blood, in varying stages of drying, but doesn’t move like any of it’s his. 

The two of them eventually find Jon and Brienne, still holding their heads high. 

“The first scouting parties are going out tomorrow morning. It shouldn’t be too intense, since it seems like we’re just cleaning up.”

Arya nods, forcing herself to ignore the buzzing. 

“Will the two of you be with us?” Brienne asks. 

Arya and Gendry exchange a gaze. 

“What time are we riding?” Gendry asks. 

“First light,” Jon replies. 

They exchange another look.

“We’ll see.”

They stagger off, still leaning on each other. Eventually they find solitude in what used to be a stable. The horses still in Winterfell all have riders, or else stand about waiting for a new one, thin and wane. 

If pushed, both of them would say a pile of straw and a horse blanket are marginally better than a pile of grain sacks. 

They’re scarred and filthy and somehow still exhausted, but somehow their hands still reach for one another. Gendry rests his weight on his arms and loves her with what little strength he can find, not letting himself go until her sighs and groans rise to a peak twice, writhing underneath him and her hands grasping at his shoulders. 

Afterwards, he still clings to her. 

“Helping save the world has made you greedy,” Arya whispers idly, playing with his hair, grown out long now. 

He squeezes her tighter. 

“I can’t help it, It’s been...gods, months, since I’ve touched you.”

Arya hums softly in response. His voice is soft enough to not increase the buzzing in her mind. It's not nearly as hard as she expected, only being able to hear clearly with one ear. The buzzing was harder, but holding Gendry against her, she finds that words are often overrated. He continues. 

“I remember how I felt last time, when I found you after in the springs. We thought it was all over, Davos said something about Daenerys meaning to give me my father’s name...I wanted to get down on one knee right there, ask you to be my lady-”

“Thank you for not, I would have run and screamed if you’d phrased it like that.”

“Didn’t get a chance now did I?” Gendry rubs his cheek against her shoulder. 

Arya shifts underneath him,

“Months since we’ve bathed too,” she starts, remembering the last months of only buckets of wet snow, “Want to go and find one of the hot springs?”

Gendry shrugs, and they stand. 

Walking through Winterfell is like walking through a corpse. Walls stand broken down, pathways littered with debris, the ever present smell of fire and rotted flesh. She’s grateful when they follow a staircase down and the hot springs under the Great Keep appear the same as always, as immovable as the mountains.

It takes longer than before to wash the muck from their bodies, and Arya is grateful too that the water seems to be no different for it. The warmth is making her sleepy, but she forces her eyes to open. She swims over, and presser her chin against Gendry’s back, wrapping her arms around him. 

“Will we be at the gates tomorrow?” she asks. 

There’s a pause. 

“Ask me in the morning, once we sleep.”

**Bear Island**

The sky was clear as it hadn’t been in ages. One could see straight through the water to the bottom on a day as clear as this. 

Which is why Osha has no words when she stares out over the sea at the lumbering bodies that walk straight into the sea and keep going. 

Panic rises in her throat, but she finds no words. Confused, Gilly walks up beside her. When she looks out, Osha can see her stiffen. 

“Start a bonfire,” she tells Osha with an unusual amount of authority, “The biggest you can. I’ll go and get the others. Lyra and Lyanna are good enough with their weapons.”

Osha can barely move for the fear, the wood begins to pile. It looks pitifully small until the large stable boy comes up near her holding an armful that looks like it could warm a whole castle in itself. 

He turns towards Osha and meets her eyes. 

“Hodor,” he says, softly, and Osha feels her eyes prickle with tears, much in the way she had in that day of the strange dreams. 

“I’ll try, sweet giant.”

By the time they are ready to light the fire, Gilly returns to the beach with the rest of the ladies in the keep. 

Hodor lifts two of the smallest children under each arm, and another climbs on his back. The children are silent, staring.

Lyra puts her hand to her brow to stare across the sea. Osha can hear crying and whimpering from the group behind her and tries to steel herself. 

Lyanna’s voice rings out. 

“Light more fires, at least enough to line the beach. If they think they will find us an easy fight, they have something else coming.”

**Greywater Watch**

The debate over names had gone back and forth a thousand times. 

The debate was still going one morning when a group of them were going out scouting to see if there was enough thaw to the bogs for Greywater Watch to move safely. It had been in one place unusually long. Near everyone in the keep were being packed into rowboats to go on ahead and signal the new destination, lightening the load and making the crannog's movement easier. 

Bran was sitting in a canoe, waiting for the others, and holding his daughter. He touches her forehead for a moment.

“Arra,” he says, turning his head to look at Meera, who’s climbed into the canoe with him. She sits gingerly, despite having exclaimed happily three days ago that she finally seemed to have stopped oozing blood, and she was starting to feel like herself again, “What do you think?”

Arra was a Stark name, the first wife of Cregan Stark, the old man of the north. And very close to another. 

“Well it will definitely get your sister off our backs when we see her again.”

There’s another of those words that catches between them, “when”. With a cough, Bran turns their words back.

“Maybe she’ll be blessed to be like her then. Brave, fierce.”

“Willing and able to fight us every step,” Meera adds with a smirk. She picks up an oar. 

“Do you want the baby or the oars?”

Considering it, Bran nods. He’ll keep Arra. 

After several minutes of rowing, Meera replies. 

“Arra works for me. We could only hope her to be as fierce as her aunt.”

She would need to be that fierce, if the world continues on the way it is. She remains silent as Bran holds her, watching the scenery of the swamps go by. It’s still winter cold, but the sun has shined brightly for nearly a whole moon’s turn, the fog only lingering in the very early mornings. The fishermen and trappers seem almost confused at being able to see so far out in front of their noses. 

Everything feels alive here, he thinks. Everything moving and drifting, as if the whole world, plants, animals and people alike, were just a single organism, moving autonomously, but parts of a larger whole. 

They pass a patch of water marked with a flag with a black “x” upon it. In one of the other boats, one packed with more people, Bran can hear Jojen whispering to Shireen. He’d heard it before too, that patches of the swamp would have so many piles of dead and decaying things in spots that gas would build up. Swimmers would get choked or intoxicated by it, so they marked them when they were found. 

“Also, that’s where we try to dump waste,” Jojen adds, “So you definitely want a warning not to swim, or fish, or drink in areas marked with black flags.”

After three-quarters of an hour or so of rowing, they pause. They’re further out towards the sea, the water is deeper and hardly any is frozen. Meera speaks to several of the other men in the boats, and then nods. 

“This is a good spot, send word back.”

The process of moving Greywater Watch is still so alien to watch, to see the whole keep float along the water as if it weighed nothing. Even the process of it being anchored still feels almost magical. But Bran watches it done, trying to acclimate himself, trying to remember that he will come to call this place home. 

When everyone’s getting out of the canoes, and tying them back, another one that hadn’t been with them approaches the keep. Howland and Jyana are inside fixing the anchor, so Meera approaches to speak to the men in the boats. 

Jojen is just whispering to Shireen about how the crannogmen can always find Greywater Watch, wherever it is, when Meera whirls around violently, and raises her voice. 

“Everyone! Get any weapons you can and get to higher ground!”

In Bran’s arms, Arra begins to cry hearing her mother yell. When the others around him begin rushing, Bran rushes to meet her. 

“What’s happened?”

“The dead are coming south. And it appears they can now cross water.”

Bran’s chest tightens. Meera reaches and takes Arra, who is still wailing.

“Get my mother and father and get to the top of the keep. I’ll find my bow and meet you.”

When Bran tries to rush after her words, he hears her telling the men in the boats to spread the word, but to use the trees if they can, since the waterways won’t be safe.

“And tell them to use fire.”

It’s a mess, trying to gather the weapons, flint, anything that might possibly be flammable. By the time Bran follows Howland and Jyana up the steps, his bad leg is aching and throbbing, about to give out. 

When he finally lets out a breath, Sansa roughly grabs his hand and drags him to a crate so he can sit. 

Sansa’s clutching her bow, the one Meera and Arya made for her all those years ago. 

“Aren’t you glad you brought it anyway?” Bran asks her.

Sansa nods, her face pale. Her lips move silently, and Bran realizes she’s praying.

Everyone spreads out so that all directions are covered, just in case. Bran feels his throat tighten, at all the people they led down here to keep them safe from the wights, and now they were here anyway. Greywater Watch doesn’t have much of a household, but there are enough bows running around each side. Spears won’t be of much use here.

Bran takes his place next to Meera, who has her bow in one hand and Arra on her back, in the sling Sansa had helped her sew out of fishnets while she was healing so the babe could be carried with her hands free.

Arra’s fussing, but not crying openly. Bran moves to kiss her head, and run his fingers over the strands of her thin reddish hair. Tully red, he realizes grimly. Meera meets his eye, and he can see the fear that she will never speak. 

Jojen finds them, and hands Bran his own bow, still a bit dusty from where it’s sat with years of disuse.. 

“We don’t have enough pitch and oil to waste this on myself, I’m such a sorry shot.”

They are as ready as they can be, and all they can do is wait. 

The first one appears before sundown, lurching through the waters and rushes. When the mud does what it can to stick it, someone takes the first shot, and the body burns. 

And they keep waiting. Another comes, two more. 

Night falls. Bran has persuaded Meera to sit down by his crate and try and sleep after feeding Arra. She has claimed waking every few hours to feed a crying infant is nothing compared to running through the snow being pursued by dead men, but her eyes betray her. Bran has tired to share her burden when he can, and he’s spent much of these weeks more tired than he can remember. 

But Bran can’t sleep, his eyes are still peeled on the horizon. 

At some point, pacing and weapon-less, Shireen passes behind him. There have been no signs of wights since the sun has left the sky. 

Tired, she mutters. 

“Maybe now that the sun has come out, they can see there’s solid ground underneath the water.”

Bran can’t even make himself consider that, and he hopes Shireen doesn’t think on it too hard. 

After a few hours, Arra wakes again, and once she’s fed, Meera tugs on Bran’s hand until he’s seated beside her, and idly rubs the back of his neck until he feels himself drifting. 

“It’s been quiet,” she murmurs, half gone, “Sleep.”

The sun comes again, and they wake to a shout and another shot taken.

Later that day, when the food is being passed around haphazardly, Sansa quietly mentions. 

“I think Shireen’s right. None came at night.”

With the sky tilting towards night again, Bran has an epiphany. 

He steps a bit to the side and nudges Sansa. 

“We left the wolves near Moat Cailin right?”

Sansa nods softly, thinking. 

“That was the last we saw them, since they don’t much care for marshes. “

“If we can warg them, we could use them to drive the wights closer, so we can get them more easily, and they won’t attack places that aren’t armed.”

Sansa’s face is uncertain. 

“I don’t know if I can warg Lady from this far away.”

“Sansa,” he implores, “Try. Try it with me.”

Sansa inhales roughly, before nodding. Bran grips her hand before shutting his eyes tightly. 

Summer’s mind is easy to recognize, even now. He begins in the dry areas close to Moat Cailin and then runs south. 

The swamp he begins to run through smells of a thousand things at once, wet and green and rotted. His own scent isn’t remaining, and Bran doesn’t think a trail would be easy for Summer to follow. 

The dead are easy to find though. They don’t smell right. Not alive, not rotting. Cold, even in the sun. 

They move aimlessly, no longer having a leader commanding them. They do seem to be avoiding Bran’s howls and barks, his plan is working. He pushes them together. It’s only Bran’s vague knowledge of where Greywater Watch is that tells him Summer’s herding them in the right direction. 

The smell shifts suddenly, becoming reminiscent of bad eggs, overly rich and vile. Summer whines at it, and the sudden heat. 

When Bran pulls himself off, he stares off through the horizon, at the black flags along the water.

He pats Sansa’s shoulder again. 

“Any luck?”

“Some”. 

He points. 

“Guide them to the bits there. Once night comes, they’ll stick.”

Sansa nods, still unsure, but her eyes turn white like his. Staggering a bit, stiff in his own skin, Bran stands to go and tell his plan to the others. 

Dusk comes, and with a gasp, Bran returns to his skin. There’s two dozen creeping, that’s all they could find, with the wolves and the ravens searching as well as they can. 

He picks up his bow, and joins his spot in line between Sansa and Meera. 

There’s twelve of them here armed. Twelve bows, with cloth wrapped arrows dipped in pitch, lit. 

Twelve arrows sail through the sky at twilight, into the clearing filled with swamp gas, already smothering several underground fires. 

And at twilight, twelve wights are violently ignited.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the delay, this chapter fought me in so many ways I couldn't even imagine. So many POVs I find difficult. I still can't believe I've been writing this a whole year, and now it's winding down...

The North

They have been fighting in the north near on a moon when Daenerys recognizes Jamie for who he is. 

It’s surreal. Her mind, her memories and her old, ghost memories are all at odds. Kingslayer one says, father killer, another. Viserys’s words echo in her history. The voice in present just says, “keep working, keep clearing the north, get these things off this face of existence, send them back to the earth.”

So they do.

It’s a game of hunt and peck. The huge armies are gone, but small packs of the dead still roam. They have no goal, no command, and they are easy enough to exterminate with dragonfire, but the process seems endless. 

And the process is not without its horrors. 

The worst of the fighting had occurred where the Ironborn disembarked outside White Harbour. Because of its proximity to Winterfell, many of the dead that had managed to breach the barriers had made their way to the sea. 

She hasn’t been able to get word from Theon or Yara and she fears the worst.

Daenerys can’t bear to think of why they were heading towards the water. Even when she’d seen from Rhaegal’s back that they had begun to cross the streams and rivers, she couldn’t imagine them crossing the ocean. Essos would have been completely unprepared. 

Daenerys is exhausted, drained. She can’t imagine that there will still be more to come after this. 

She approaches Jamie on Rhaegal’s back, and calls out. 

“Cerwyn and Torrhen’s Square have both been cleared,” Jamie tells her, “But we still need to sweep east and west.”

“I’ll take the Northwest,” she tells Jamie, “The forests and mountains will be too much for your men on horseback. Get with the survivors of Winterfell and go through the eastern keeps. “

“Be wary of the mountain clans, they do not always take kindly to outsiders and I doubt even the Stark’s could compel them to evacuate,” Jamie warns her, “Bear Island’s there too, and several men from Winterfell have claimed that many refugees were sent there.”

Daenerys winces. Of course, with whatever foresight the north could have had, they would have tried to get their peoples to safety, and she doubts the south would have paid them any mind. Much like she nearly didn’t. She wonders how many of her men who she brought over from Essos, nearly entirely unprepared for this, have perished. 

Soaring over the thick forests, hills and valleys of the North, Daenerys wonders how she could have never heard stories as vivid as seeing this land from the air like this. 

Jamie presses east, trying to make contact with the scouting parties from Winterfell. His men are as lost in the north as Daenerys is, and they don’t have the advantage of dragons on their side. Drogon and Viserys are keeping closer to Daenerys and can’t be too much help to him. 

The east of the north is flatter, and the sunshine makes the fighting easier, but this doesn’t change the fact that little swaths of the dead keep finding their way through the trees. 

Fewer and fewer. He can’t wait until they aren’t anymore. 

And it’s the same for his men, Jamie has met very few of the army he led north, these are men of the Reach, southerners through and through. As the dead fall, so do they. 

They clear the keeps one by one. White Harbour is a graveyard, littered with the fallen of the Iron born and Unsullied. They bury those they can, and take up the survivors. Jamie muses that they must be the most mismatched, hacked together army that history has ever produced. 

Oldcastle, Ramsgate, Widow’s Watch. Inland towards Hornwood, and north, to the Dreadfort. 

He vaguely remembers something about Ned Stark executing the traitorous Boltons years ago, but he has no idea what had been done about their empty holdings. 

They meet up with a group that has come from Winterfell, northmen and wildlings alike. At the front, Jamie spies Robb Stark, riding tall with an axe in his remaining hand. Jamie feels his own ache, in a phantom pain. 

“We ride north,” he calls out, “The Last Hearth and Karhold still remain.”

When they reach Karhold, there’s a small horde that emerges from the woods and attacks. Jamie steels himself but finds he moves far slower than the rider by his side. 

The other rider dispatches the approaching dead with ease, as though they have done it have done it a thousand times. They may have. 

Jamie’s hand is still on his sword when he turns to acknowledge the rider. The memories buried in the back of his mind roar to life when his eyes connect with pale blue. 

Promises that should have been made, vows he tried his best to follow through, all of them rush through him. His stomach starts turning somersaults, and he finds he can’t control the expression playing out on his face.

Brienne’s mouth opens, and Jamie can’t even imagine what she would say to him, wonders in fact if she would even recognize him, after all not everyone saw the same things, wonders if-

She shouts, “Duck!” but it’s too late. The Other’s arrow of ice comes at him too fast, and pierces him through the eye.

The Neck

Meera sits cross-legged on the edge of the crannog, staring off into the swamp air. The fog has returned, heavy in the morning, and she feels like this has meaning. 

Her daughter sits on her lap, her husband having taken a dip into the clear waters around the crannog. 

Arra babbles, and sucks on her fingers. She had slept through the night for the first time a few nights prior, frightening her parents when they’d woken before she did. Jyana had smiled and commented that she would start sitting up on her own and maybe even crawling soon. 

It makes Meera’s chest tighten, to think that they’d been hiding so long.

“It’s not much,” she whispers over Arra’s head, “And sometimes you have to look deep for the beauty, but it’s home.”

There’s a splash as Bran emerges up through the water and takes a deep breath, before paddling over to where they’re sitting. 

Every single day that it had been warm enough Bran had gone in the water. Even on the days when he couldn’t stay in more than five minutes without his lips turning blue. He claimed that with the water cushioning his muscles and joints, he felt more free than he had since before his accident, either of them.

When he’d told her this, she had felt the need to remind him that his pain and disability were never a burden to her. 

“Are you ever getting out of there?” Meera teases. 

“Nope,” he says, “I’m going to grow gills and fins, and you’ll have to come in here too if you ever want to see me.”

Arra babbles, and Bran laughs in response, before pulling himself out, slowly, onto the crannog. He leans over and pulls Arra into his own lap. 

“Maybe I’ll wait until this one can swim in with me.”

Meera turns her face up towards the fog. There’s something different about this morning. It’s something in the way the air feels on her skin, in the way it smells.

Inside the keep, Jojen smells it too, and he knows. 

“It’s going to start raining soon,” he tells Shireen, who’s sitting at the table writing. 

She raises an eyebrow. 

“Is that a vision?’

Jojen chuckles. 

“No, just experience.”

His voice quiets, and becomes more serious. 

“I did have a vision a few nights ago. It was different though. It didn’t hurt, and I don’t know why.”

Shireen frowns. 

“Do you think...maybe it had to do with the big ones all of us had?”

Jojen’s silent. He doesn’t know. They sit in silence until the raindrops begin to drop rhythmically on the metal outside the keep. 

“After this is done,” Shireen starts, “I’m going to go back to Winterfell, collect everything I can. The fights, the names of the dead. I’m going to take it all to the Citadel. History deserves to be told by the people who lived it.”

She pauses a bit. 

“Come with me,” she says, with uncharacteristic certainty, “Come to the Citadel with me.”

Jojen freezes, and doesn’t respond. 

Shireen continues, reaching out to touch his hand, “I know you must have thought about it. I know I have, being able to be in the place in Westeros that so reveres knowledge and learning...”

Shireen drops her hand, and her eyes drop to the wood of the table. 

“Though even if I bring things for them to add to their collections, I can’t even know that they’ll give me the time of day.”

Jojen doesn’t respond to her words, but he reaches back up to take her hand again, squeezing. Just when it looks like he might say something, Bran and Meera enter from the side of the keep, soaked in rain, Bran clutching baby Arra. 

Shireen raises an eyebrow. 

‘Looks like it’s coming down out there.”

Meera nods, squeezing the rain water out of her curls and finding a flannel to dry off the baby and wrap her. At the sound, Sansa emerges from where she had been in their sleeping chamber and joins Jojen and Shireen at the table.

Jojen stares out one of the windows before Meera moves to check and make sure the netting is pinned down so the wind can’t blow it open. 

“I feel like the rain is important,” Jojen comments to the others. “There was rain in my dream last night.”

“What did the rain do? Bran asks. He’s seated and rubbing his leg. Sometimes changes in the weather make the bone that was broken so long ago ache. 

Jojen shakes his head. 

“I don’t really remember. But I think- I think it might be all over.”

That gets everyone’s attention, but no one dares speak. 

Finally, it’s Bran who breaks the silence. 

“I’ll send Una north, and try to warg the others again. We’ll see.”

It’s been strange trying to keep track of the birds from here. With their wings, they can avoid the dead with ease, and bird eyes are good enough to know when they can land. Bran sometimes wonders, if they hadn’t been able to stem the tide, if the Night King had prevailed, would the birds have kept on. Some birds could eat the dead, and others could see in the night. 

With Bran’s mind wandering, he’s suddenly terribly glad they stopped the Night King from getting his hands on Viserion this time. 

At least it means they managed to make something easier. 

Winterfell

Some nights, the pain from Ned’s wound is enough that he can barely leave the Great Hall. Thankfully, it’s not like his chambers are in any condition to be slept in. 

“There’s a wall down on the east side of the Great Keep,” Arya tells him one morning. On the days he can barely move, she’s been keeping him up to date on the state of the repairs. 

“How bad?” Ned wants to know. The morning that the first scouting party had gone out, Arya had taken one look at her injured father and known she had to stay at Winterfell. She couldn’t leave him alone.

“Pretty bad, but it’s our first priority. To give shelter to who we still can. We’re using what stone we can salvage, there’s a few masons among us, but it’s not like we can get in any new material shipments yet.”

This is how most of the conversations have gone, as Arya has kept him up to date of the outbuildings that need rebuilding and the fire damage. This is a patch job, and will be until the north can return and begin functioning normally. If it ever does. They’ve done all they can to clear debris, but there seems to be endlessly more, and too much that they have nowhere to dispose.

“Is your husband still here, or did he go out with this scouting mission?”

Arya nods. The first scouting, Gendry had accompanied, leaving her behind to continue with the rebuilding. Upon the party’s return, he had decided his skills were better used here. After complaining quite a lot about the constant riding of course. 

“He’s still here. The party’s due back later today, so I can send Robb and Jon to see you too.”

“You should let them rest,” Ned tries to insist, but he knows it won’t work. None of the siblings have spoken about their father’s condition, but it seems they all somehow know.

Arya leaves the Great Hall into the courtyard, and takes in what she can handle to see of her childhood home. 

Robb and Jon can barely bring themselves to look too deeply either. Arya offers to take them both to see Ned, but Jon has the dubious honor of getting Jamie Lannister to Maester Luwin.

“Shows up, and the next thing you know, he’s got an arrow sticking from his eye. Mostly the remaining wights aren’t using weapons, he just had spectacularly unlucky timing.”

“Seems poetic honestly,” Arya muses, “He lost his arm before, wonder if maybe he sees this as an upgrade. I’ve been blind before, I think I could adjust.”

Regardless, Jon has to get him among the injured so they can see what to do about his eye.

Jon thought it was good to give Robb time alone with Ned. Functionally, Robb was now Lord of Winterfell, even missing his arm. He led their men through the north to extinguish the threat of the dead, Back at Winterfell, him and Val were leading the rebuilding and many of the men looked to Robb first, before Ned. 

Ned hadn’t gotten yet to tell him how proud of him he had become. 

“We’ve managed to clear most of the east. The dragon queen is still trying what she can in the west, but the mountains are making it hard,and we have to decide if it’s safe to retrieve the refugees from Bear Island yet.”

Ned took his son’s arm. 

“There will be time enough for plans. Rest my son, tomorrow is another day.”

Off on the other end of the Great Hall, Jon deposits Jamie Lannister onto a mat for Maester Luwin to examine. It’s made easier because when Jon and Brienne had helped him from his horse, he had since passed out from the pain. 

“The bleeding seems to have stopped, but he’s been in awful pain since.”

Luwin nods.

“Best I can do is give him milk of the poppy for the pain,” his voice thins, “we don’t have much left. Other than that, it’s just hoping that it heals without corruption. There should be someone with him when he wakes up, or he could hurt himself.”

Jon feels a step land behind him. He hadn’t realized Brienne had continued with them past the courtyard. 

“I shall stay with him Maester.”

Jon meets her eye, and sees a spark, and a shimmer. He nods to her, clapping her on the shoulder.

“If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the Godswood.”

Somehow, even with all the damage, the Godswood has remained pristine. Stepping over the rubble at the entrance, Jon feels in his soul why Ned had always considered it his place, where he could think and be with his own mind.

He finds Rowan seated at the base of the heart tree, with Ygritte by her side. 

“How’s your arm?” he asks, setting down Dark Sister and sitting upon the grass. 

“Still getting used to it,” Ygritte tells him

Jon turns his attention to Rowan.

“Is there anything else the weirwoods are speaking of the land?”

Rowan smiles softly. 

“They speak of change, but I don’t yet know what that means, whether it is something just for them, for the land, or for us all.”

She stands, and brushes off her limbs. The snow is beginning to melt, but some powder still remains. 

“Perhaps more useful images will come to me in my sleep.”

Rowan has begun to rest in the hollow formed underneath the oldest tree in the wood. It bore much resemblance, in a way to the cave far north where they had first met. 

Once she had gone, Ygritte asks Jon.

“What is it like out there?”

Jon sighs deeply. 

“The dead seem to finally be staying down without stragglers. We’re waiting for Daenerys’s word that the land is safe before we begin recalling the refugees. We may have even to go scouting again, and so much has been destroyed. It will be years, maybe decades even, until the North is more than a shadow of its former self.”

Ygritte nods.

“Some of the Free Folk are talking about helping rebuild, but others want to return to their homes over the wall.”

Jon chews his lip in thought. 

“That would be something to bring up with Robb. After his marriage to Val, all the north should be considered one in the same, but somehow I doubt it will go that smoothly. Even if there are only a few of my former brothers still alive among us.“

Will the Night’s Watch even need to still exist? Jon suddenly ponders. There will be no more white walkers, at least as far as the stories go, and if the Wildlings are considered northerners...

“Will there be any more pretty crows in the wild who need to be kept warm?” Ygritte wonders, wrapping her fingertip into one of Jon’s curls. He retaliates by pulling her into his lap.

“I hope not, don’t want you getting any ideas about trading up.”

Though much of the snow has melted, the ground is still frozen underneath Jon’s backside and the air nips at their skin where it is exposed by moving their clothing aside. His cloak spread on the ground eases some of the cold, as does Ygritte’s warm, soft flesh, in his hands, surrounding him and moving above him. 

Jon does his best not to linger on the symbolism of the two of them like this, coupling in front of a heart tree, on top of his cloak. But his mind cannot shake the image of the heat from their bodies, being pulled into the earth, softening the winter freeze.

King’s Landing

Winter storms had come to King’s Landing. Rain and sleet and hail poured down at a rate the capital didn’t see any other season. It made life very difficult for many of the smallfolk, some even who might have welcomed a nice, quiet snowfall.

And when that wasn’t enough, there was Tywin Lannister. 

While many denizens of Westeros had been wandering since the visions in a state of confusion, or despair, or occasionally elation, Tywin had been consumed with only one emotion. That emotion was rage.

He was hardly the only man in the capital who had seen his own death, but he was the only one that was actively fuming over it, nearly every hour of every day.

The servants felt his wrath the most. The small council members almost as much. And he could only imagine what he would have inflicted on his own grandson if it weren’t for the unfortunate incident that had ended his life prematurely. Again as it would seem.

Because now, Tywin was hand to an infant king, a grieving widow queen, and father of three incredibly difficult and infuriating children. He had some hope that the confusion and grief of the situation might allow him to retain some influence over the Queen Regent. He had no doubt that the rest of the Tyrells would be eager to extend their influence on the crown and the realm, and he must not allow them to gain a foothold.

And one day, during a torrential downpour, reports came to his ears of a dragon flying south.

What a ridiculous story. But still, he tells the guards to be vigilant. 

Not that there was anything they could do.

The three beasts enter the skyline of King’s Landing during another downpour, that while it threatened flooding, almost kept down the city’s infamous smell. 

What was a hill to a dragon? What were walls? The three bodies skimmed over the Blackwater Rush with nary a thing in their way. The guard’s gathered in the courtyard can do little more than fire arrows that bounce off their scales. Behind the guards, Queen Margaery has ushered the servants and ladies of the court into the bowels of the keep, and has quietly joined the men in the courtyard.

Tywin has dealt with Targaryens before, but he’s not quite sure what to expect when the dragon’s rider dismounts. 

It’s not a woman, bedragged by the rain, staring him straight in the eye. The others flank her, one carrying a bundle in it’s claws. She stays under the protective cover of the dragon’s jaws, it’s tongue wiping the raindrops from it’s muzzle. Tywin could order his men to attack, but he knows better. 

She looks Tywin up and down.

“The city appears in one piece. That’s more than I can say for the rest of your kingdom. I can see from your garb you are a Lannister, given your age and position, I imagine you must be Tywin.”

“Speak your peace,” Tywin responds, his voice sounding for what may be the first time in his life, uneasy.

“I have brought you evidence of what has been rampaging over the North of Westeros for near on a year. I imagine you must have heard the stories, though I know you did nothing.”

The dragon to the left sets down the bundle on the ground. It’s wrapped in sackcloth and rope. Margaery feels her stomach turn. 

“I will thank your son Jamie, however, for the men he was able to provide to the cause-”

Tywin’s face whitens. And here it was, his children, able to cause him strife in any life he lives.

“And the Queen you serve, who felt the need to go around her King’s back to send them. Though, I understand, no one could have expected to find wights upon the land, not outside of nursery tales.”

The bundle on the ground twitches, and Tywin hears one of the men shout. Daenerys steps forward, and pulls the burlap away from the top of the figure, though she does not untie it. 

Even far behind the guards, Margaery feels all her plans and schemes for the future of her life begin to melt away. She files mentally through her skills, dismissing them one at a time. 

It was never one her grandmother would approve of, but perhaps this time, the best path will be humility.


End file.
